


Les Oiseaux Rebelles

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Absent Parents, Abusive Parents, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, BUT THERE'S FLUFF I SWEAR, Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Child Abuse, Deceit, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Canon Joining, Eventual Smut, Eventually it gets better, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kid!Lock, Letters, Lies, Loss of Control, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Trust, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Prior warning: Not a MorMor Fic, Rehabilitation, Texting, There's just some MorMor friendship and feels there, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Uni!lock, bildungsroman, codes, miscommunications, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 52,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2210496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long-awaited, long-written, long-edited follow-up of "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1670720">Ruin is in My Name</a>"</p><p>AU in which Sherlock solves the Carl Powers murder early on, the story is mostly about Jim. However, Sherlock goes through his own problems. A <i>lot</i> of his own problems. No one is safe in this harsh world. The only solace they find is in each other, but they can't always seem to agree on that. </p><p>Follows their life together, growing up, their parallels, their similarities, their differences, and yes, their precarious, yet singular relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is not based on the opera _Carmen_ , but I felt it had very similar themes, and _Habanera_ goes along nicely. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful, lovely, amazing [Plaguedbynargles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles), without whom, I probably would've never finished this :x

_L'amour est un oiseau rebelle, Que nul ne peut apprivoiser..._  
 _(Love is a rebellious bird, That none can tame...)_

 

He goes by "Jimmy" now. He's eleven. Hardly innocent, but so few people are gifted with such a fragile thing these days. Especially when it's actively being hunted down. It makes even the softest of us feral. 

In a few years, when he goes to college, he'll transition to "Jim." It sticks the longest. 

At some point, when he teaches, he's referred to respectfully as "Professor Moriarty." He keeps the title for a while. 

When he becomes a criminal mastermind, the only name the world will know is "Moriarty."

His parents call him "James." Unfortunately, that's his father's name. Though his mother is almost never home, they are the only ones who ever will. 

And then there's Sherlock, who is different. Always has been different. Throughout his life, he calls Jimmy a great deal of things.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter by a long shot, it was just necessary to set the tone. Rest assured, we're in for a long ride :) 
> 
> Also, yes, the title was once "The Many Names of Love," but I was struck with a more... artistic flare-up after listening to Bizet for a few hours.


	2. Jimmy, age 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But over the last few months or so, something broke inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention that chapters will be named for the person they are _most_ about, with a "+" whenever it's both Jim and Sherlock. And it will give their age at the time, or some amount of days/weeks/months later in relation to the previous chapter

"Freak!" A large boy, about a year older than Jimmy yells as he pushes him over. Jimmy throws his hands out to protect his face from coming into contact with the gravel on the playground. 

_I am not a freak…_ Jimmy thinks, trying to pull himself back up. The older boy, a bit hefty, with tousled blond hair and eczema, presses his foot down on the younger boy's back, his big trainers leaving a sizable print on his shirt, "Stay down, freak." 

It had been three years of this. James Moriarty had moved with his family from Dublin to Sussex at the age of eight, and from the first day of school, Carl Powers had taken a dislike to him. "Dislike" was far too kind a word — _absolute loathing_ might've worked better. 

Every day, Jimmy could look forward to being punched, kicked, pushed, shoved, teased, and most other demeaning acts one could imagine. In the beginning, he would tell the teachers, but Carl would play the sweet and innocent act, and occasionally make it seem like Jimmy was the bully, "Of course he picks on _me_ , I've got eczema! There's nothing wrong with him! He's normal! Ordinary! _Look_!"

Unfortunately, the teachers bought it. _Of course_ _they'd take his side…_ Jimmy's complaints and bruises went ignored, _Star athlete over there. And what am I? I keep to myself, sports are for people like_ him _, who have nothing in their_ heads _to work._ But no matter how he justified hating the older boy, he couldn't help but feel shame; why couldn't he stand up to him? Why was he not _strong_ enough? 

He didn't tell his father, who did _worse_ to him daily. He didn't tell his mother, who was always a bit air-headed (little did Jimmy know, she was slowly marinating in Percocet to dull the pain of being married to his father), and who occasionally ran away from home. Of course,she always returned a few months later, just a tad more resentful than before. A little less of a complete person each time.

For a year or two, Jimmy was resigned just to deal with Carl's torment. But over the last few months or so, something broke inside — perhaps it was that his mother had been gone too long, or the new cigarette burns on his arm from his father — whatever allowed him to bypass his natural reaction for passive self-defense dissolved, and had now begun actively planning _revenge_. 

But it wasn't "revenge" so much as it was keeping the beast's flaky paws away from him. Permanently.

Yes, those grimy little fingers would be his downfall — Jimmy had a plan. As omnipresent as Carl seemed, Jimmy noticed he was quite foolhardy with his belongings. Including the bag he kept his skin medication in. 

When Jimmy's father wasn't _heavily_ drinking (which had been increasingly often, getting deeper into his alcoholism), he was a coroner. Sometimes he'd tell Jimmy interesting things he saw at work, or, more importantly, had _failed_ to see. In his less sober moments, he'd occasionally joke about how to get away with murder. _Botulinum toxin. Hard to find in an autopsy, unless you're looking for it._ And who would be looking for _this_?

Obtaining a little of the poison would be easy enough — his dad worked in a hospital, there was a lab, and the attendant was hardly ever there. _Getting high in the broom closet, no doubt,_ Jimmy thinks as he picks up the necessary vial. 

Within a week, Carl Powers is set to go to London, far away from home, to participate in a swim meet. _Perfect_ , Jimmy thinks, knowing his moment was at hand. This way, there'd be even _less_ suspicion, and the brute would most likely drown in the pool. It'd be so tragic, in the papers, no doubt. And everyone would accept the idea that it was all just an accident.

Jimmy doesn't go with the field trip — watching publicly would be far too incriminating, as he wouldn't weep. He wouldn't look shocked, or distressed. In fact, if Jimmy was right about his reactions, he'd just smirk evilly, perhaps have a good guffaw. But he _does_ sneak down to London, and waits just outside the locker rooms. Powers' medication was topically applied, and thus remnants of the toxin could feasibly be detected in the cream, or from the skin flakes on those horrid sneakers. 

He stands there, sticking to the shadows, a cool breeze rustles his hair. It's peaceful, the serenity he feels knowing the biggest obstacle to his happiness will soon be taken care of. 

The swim team enters, and he waits for the bustle to die down, and the last locker to shut. When Jimmy is absolutely certain no one will return, he slinks in, finds Carl's locker, and swipes the remaining medicine and trainers.  

Whistling, the only pieces of evidence that could point to murder safely tucked in his backpack, Jimmy strolls back to the train station.

The next day, he hears the news Carl Powers was dead. " _Freak accident_ ," Jimmy sniggers, "For the last time."

 


	3. Billy, age 11

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, more often referred to as "Billy," sits at the table in his family estate in London, combing over every detail in the Carl Powers case. It was a week ago, and so far, the papers will only refer to it as a "tragic accident." But something about it leaps out at Billy — something didn't quite line up.

"But they've got it _wrong_ , Mikey!" Billy whines to his older brother, whose newspaper he's stolen to get his attention. 

"Do shut _up_ , Billy." Mycroft scoffs, snatching the paper back from his little brother, "I don't see why you're so obsessed. He _drowned_ , nothing more. Now be _quiet_ so I can read the _actual_ news, or I'll tell mummy you're being obstinate. "

Billy scowls — he used to love his brother, despite the seven-year age difference, they used to get along famously. It was unusual, since most siblings as far apart as they were typically had some estrangement, but Mycroft almost treated him like an equal when he wasn't teaching Billy everything he knew. Billy suspected it was because their parents were almost never home — their father, Siger Holmes, was a diplomat, whisked away to foreign summit meetings at the drop of a hat, taking his wife, Violet, with him and leaving the boys to the service staff.

Even when the pair _were_ home, they hardly noticed their sons. Raising children wasn't the most _dignified_ of acts, it was just _necessary_. That's how everything in their parents' world was run: by society's commands.

Mycroft was seven when they brought Billy home to him, and it only took a few hours for him to deduce their disinterest. It was their _duty_ to have children, nothing more. He took it upon himself to make sure his brother felt more loved and appreciated than he had. In ways, he'd become Billy's parent, supporting him unconditionally. 

It felt like real kinship, filling the void their parents had left. Lately, however, Mycroft's been dismissive, not listening to his younger brother the way he once did. It was almost sad, and very frustrating: Billy and Mikey had been the best of friends, playing childish games, discovering new things, or solving puzzles together by candlelight in the wee hours of the morning, hiding from the maids. Then Mikey got into Oxford. 

Suddenly, he was too good for Billy. As if he'd joined the previous generation of Holmes, world now run strictly on necessity and disdain. 

The eleven-year-old stalks back to his room, not wanting to waste air any longer; whenever Mycroft found him _obstinate,_ which was a growing number of times as of late, he'd make sure Billy spent the weekend helping in the tulip garden. It wasn't the dirt Billy minded, so much as not being able to do anything else, _I spend more time with the grounds keeper than my own mummy…_ he thinks reproachfully. 

Over the next few months, to take away from the dullness of school and the fact he no longer had anyone to talk to, Billy obsesses over every scrap of information he can get his tiny hands on. Names of everyone on the swim team, Carl's classmates, the school he went to, hang out spots, what he ate, any allergies, but it all proved fruitless. That was, until he changed his search tactic: it wasn't so much that clues needed to be _found,_ so much as what _wasn't_ found. 

 _Carl's shoes. The police hadn't mentioned them in the reports when his effects were gathered_. Billy felt very warm,  _Someone must've_ taken _them. Deliberately. The murderer._  

Sure enough, when Billy goes to Scotland Yard the next day, the officers are very confused when he asks about the Powers boy's trainers. 

 _Yes_ , no one had found them. 

But to his eternal disappointment, no one seems to think it's a big deal. 

He's turned away, the shoes seen as a trivial matter, proving nothing. "It's just a simple case of drowning, kid." A rather stuffy policeman says, shooing him out the door, "But come back when you're older, we might have a job for you." Billy doubts it, making a pact with himself right then never to work for _idiots_. 

He doesn't give up. He spends the better part of the year finding _anyone_ who could be a suspect, opening up his search range to include teachers, older children, younger children, bullying reports, anyone who Carl might've made an enemy.

Nothing much turns up — Carl seemed to be the perfect little boy. Good grades, swim team, tons of friends… but then Billy hits a particularly unconvincing report. Apparently, a boy a year under Carl had made dozens of accusations of all kinds of _torture_ against him. Seeing the haphazard way in which the teacher defends the bully's behavior, and turns it around on the younger boy makes Billy sick.

_James Moriarty. The name has a ring to it._

While Billy feels some pity for the boy, he has a _need_ to confirm his theory. Cracking a dazzling smile — the first he had in _weeks_ — he decides a trip to Sussex is called for. 

_That is, once Mycroft goes to uni in a few months, and can't have his fat nose constantly in my business, or rat on me to mummy and daddy. That prissy little snitch._

It will be the first time Billy breaks the law. He looks forward to it. 

 

 


	4. Billy/Sherlock + Jimmy, age 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for them to meet.

Thinking he'd gotten away with it, Jimmy lived without guilt or worry. 

It had been a year, and there had been no question of the legitimacy of the drowning being _completely_ accidental. And even if there were suspicion — which there wasn't — who would scrutinize a twelve-year old?

That was until today, a lanky, pale, quivering, high-class (judging by his hair, teeth and tidy clothing) boy appearing before him. He's twelve as well, if not a month or two younger. Somehow, this kid had tracked him down, finding Jimmy behind the gymnasium, smoking his first cigarette (that he'd stolen from his mummy's purse).

At first, the skinny boy with bedraggled brunette curls can't say much, a bit intimidated by the young murderer leaning against the brick wall. They lock eyes, a bit awkward, Jimmy apprehensive — was this boy here to bully him as well? No one had bothered him since Carl died. 

The intruder, Billy, was nervous. He'd never confronted anyone on a crime before (unless you counted busting Mycroft for sneaking extra sweets at night), and he was worried how it might turn out. He wasn't considering turning the boy in front of him in, even if he were to confess; he was more interested in the thrill of being _right_ and Mycroft — the git — being _wrong_.

Like Jimmy, he'd slunk away from his home, jumping on a train car as it chugged away from the station. He just _had_ to confirm his ideas, even if it meant breaking a few tedious laws. _Besides, how much trouble could I get in?_ Billy muses, _I'm just a child and my parents are rich._

What eased Billy's tongue was seeing the look of perspicuity on Jimmy's face— he could _see_ all of this going on in his head, watching the cogs turn. A flicker of his eyes, taking in the dust on Billy's pants from the ignored train car, the evaporated sweat on his hairline from where he ran, the resolute look in his eyes, ready to lob an accusation. 

"I know it was you!" The curly-haired boy finally blurts out, as if in one long word, summoning up all of his courage. He's breathless. Exhilarated. He kept keen focus to keep his knees from trembling. 

Jimmy says nothing. Just stares with large brown eyes. 

After a moment, he holds out the open pack of smokes, a silent offering. _Impressive, but now you're a threat._

The taller boy takes it, though he's only ever seen his brother smoking before. He understands the idea of it, doing his best not to choke as Jimmy strikes a match and lights the end. 

"You're the first to figure it out." Jimmy says somberly as his potential snitch leans against the space nearest to him, "What's your name?"

"Holmes," he replies, now worried by the deadly tone in his suspect's voice.

"What do they call you back in London?" Clearly, Jimmy had noticed Sherlock's native inflection, and had traveled some ways to have this moment with him. A glimpse of triumph, solving a crime no one else could've — he could relate to that.

" _Freak_." He says with distaste, "But my parents call me 'Billy.'" 

This makes Jimmy giggle, "What would you _like_ to be called?" _A kindred spirit? Perhaps… did he seek me out because he saw my brilliance? Then again, I doubt he knows why — there must be a big reason to come all this way._

It's strange, no one has ever asked Billy that before, "I think… I think I'd like to be called 'Sherlock.'" Seeing the questioning look on Jimmy's face, he adds, "It's my middle name."

"Interesting choice. _Sherlock_." He tests the name out, feeling each letter on his tongue. It's quiet again as they continue to puff away, "You already know _my_ name, I take it?" 

Sherlock nods slowly, "James Moriarty…" But he wants Moriarty to say his name again. Something about it sounded… _better_ with his light Irish accent. 

"Good, good… but I mostly go by 'Jimmy.'"

"What did _he_ call you?" Sherlock asks, attempting to explore his new acquaintance's (friend's?) motives.

" _Freak_." Jimmy bites. 

It's silent again, but it's different. It is a silence of deep understanding. Both tortured souls, misunderstood by everyone else. Brought together by a crime either could've committed; it was just a matter of chance and opportunity. For the first time, they are not alone.

Sherlock returns to England, tightly clutching a piece of paper with Jimmy's address to his heart. He'd left a similar piece of parchment with Jimmy. Being twelve and all, they couldn't really make their visits regular, but when it got to be too much, they'd write letters.

"Billy" finds himself back in his room, his family none the wiser.

Sherlock and Jimmy are each others' first and only friends.

 


	5. Sherlock/Billy, age 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They must be parted, however painfully, for now.

It had been somewhat pathetic: Sherlock would wait by his window every morning, hoping to intercept the postman before any of the service staff would get their grubby hands on the letters and inform mummy, or daddy, or _Mycroft_ that little Billy had gotten a letter. Shuddering at the thought, Sherlock would do anything to avoid having to answer nosey questions. 

The first letter had arrived a week after their clandestine meeting:

 

**dear SHERLOCK,**

 

**school Is dull. what do you do to pAss the tiMe? GeneraLly, i study up on different chemicals, or Astronomy. trying to branch out — both here on earth anD WhatEver lies beyond. of course, i hardly think it MattErs, buT i've burned through most of what i can get my hands on so far.**

 

**-jimmy**

 

At first the capitalization seemed random, but it didn't take more than five seconds to realize that Jimmy had hidden a message within his intentionally mundane dribbling.

The code is rudimentary, and wouldn't hold up to his older brother's scrutiny if it ever landed in his fat hands. But this small gesture makes the teenaged boy happy to see as he scratches the relevant letters on spare paper, mimicking Jimmy's handwriting as best he can: SHERLOCK I AM GLAD WE MET.

Sherlock smiles, "A simple code for a simple message." Even if it's simplistic, he can't help but feel intensely flattered. He decides to return with an easy code as well, but ups the ante a bit by writing the whole letter as such, as well as incorporating Jimmy's little ruse. 

He writes the alphabet, then writes it backward, using it as a key whenever he gets stuck:

 

**wvzi QRNNB,**

 

**hxsllo yhm'g wfoo hl Nfxs zh gsV nlilmh Gszg rmszyrg rg. r pvvk gL nbhvou zh nfxs zh r xzm — gsv ochh r svzi gsv tizgrmt eLrxvh lu lgSvih, gsv yvggvi. r zohL szev z olev lu KzigrxoVh, GsLfts r xzm'g Hvv sld hgzih ziV iVovzmg. wlm'g Blf gsrmp dszg'h tLrmt lm Fmwvi sviv rH nLiv rnkLigzMg?**

 

**-hsviolxp**

 

Which translated:

 

**dear JIMMY,**

 

**school isn't dull so Much as thE morons That inhabit it. i keep tO myself as much as i can — the less i hear the grating vOices of otHers, the better. i alsO have a love of ParticlEs, ThOugh i can't See how stars arE rElevant. don't You think what's gOing on Under here iS mOre impOrtaNt?**

 

**-sherlock**

 

He intentionally cuts the letter short before he can write something stupid, such as, "Like you." The code within the code read: JIMMY ME TOO HOPE TO SEE YOU SOON.

Pleased with his work, Sherlock carefully places it in an envelope, addresses it, and hides it in his backpack, mailing it when he went to school the next day. 

Then he gets another letter, though this one's message encourages him to write in codes that don't _look_ like codes — people should be alerted to the presence of the code as little as possible. Internally chastising himself, Sherlock sends one back. He receives another. It goes on for weeks. Months. One letter a week, sometimes two. 

Send one, get one back, though Sherlock would take longer to respond if Mycroft were there. His brother had grown suspicious of his brother's behavior, though no one else seemed to think anything was out of the ordinary. 

But even Sherlock's overbearing older brother couldn't stop him from using the post box at school. It becomes something of a ritual. Even if he has no other friends, he has at least some connection to replace what he'd lost with that pompous lout who still calls him "Billy."

Sherlock is extremely pleased when Jimmy sends him a birthday card — he hadn't even told him when it was, so he was tickled to find out how Jimmy knew. 

Jimmy never gives up the secret, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. _Which is odd, I always seem to mind… oh well. Perhaps it's just respect for his cleverness…_

In retaliation, Sherlock draws on his resources to find out Jimmy's, and sends him a card when the day comes. 

It's the first time either of them has had a pen pal. Nothing will keep them from that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really adore this idea of them using codes... <3


	6. Jimmy, age 13

Their correspondence had been going on almost half a year now, but both of them had never been more involved with another human being. Even if their contact was restricted to the very thin confines of a page, the feel of the ink and paper was far realer than any present meat bag that deigned to talk to them. 

Today's letter is written in the pigpen cypher. While it breaks their tradition of using less conspicuous methods of hiding their notes, the decoy message under the symbols was rather common, and wouldn't arouse suspicion, _I doubt anyone reads these, but if they did, what could they possibly imagine two thirteen-year-olds are up to?_

Reading the _true_ contents of the letter, Jimmy frowns:

 

**Dear Jimmy,**

 

**I miss you. The world outside our letters doesn't make any sense. People are boring, and I can know everything about them within seconds of contact. They wear their whole minds on the fronts of their jumpers, practically vomiting them up for the most basic strangers. It's pathetic how much they cling to any sort of connection.**

 

**Is that how I seem to you? If so, I apologize. It's just that no one else understands.**

 

**-Sherlock**

 

Immediately, he begins to write his response, not bothering with any sort of protective measures:

 

**Sherlock,**

 

**Never think you're a burden to me. I know exactly how you feel. You understand. I understand. You're the only person that's worth anything to me. Please don't compare yourself to the likes of the *ordinary* people, because you're nothing like them.**

 

**Don't let them drag you down to their level. You belong up here. With me.**

 

**-Jimmy**

 

As he drops the letter in the mailbox, Jimmy wonders if he'd been too hasty in his reply — he didn't want his message to get muddled up in code. He wanted to respond _quickly_. He wanted to comfort his last link to attachment more than he wanted to challenge him. 

The next note is short, likewise written in plain-speak. But the statement impacts Jimmy in ways he wasn't ready for:

 

**Dear Jimmy,**

 

**A world without you is scarcely a world at all.**

 

**-Sherlock**

 

It was an odd feeling rising inside of his chest. Jimmy had experienced the brunt of outrage from his father in the forms of anger, fear, hatred, and often neglect. Because of this, Jimmy never really felt wanted, or like his existence mattered to anyone else.

In this moment, he feels as if he may very well be the most important person alive. It's the first time he doesn't regret being born. 

Jimmy decides it's time to begin planning their next get-together.

He wants to silence Sherlock's demons. 


	7. Jimmy + Sherlock, age 14

They're in London, hiding in Sherlock's room. It'd taken a few months, but Jimmy had arranged for their lives to cross again. 

It's the first time Jimmy has been to Sherlock's house, having used the same route he had three years ago. They're both happy, but are quietly disappointed, knowing this visit will never be enough, yet they can't risk having more than one or two a year while still this young. _It'll be better soon,_ Sherlock wants to cry out, _We'll get older and no one can tell us where we need to be or where we're allowed to go._

But there's something else on his mind. _Murder_. 

No one knows Jimmy is there (though Mycroft suspects it, he isn't home to confirm), no parents, no adults of any kind, effectively left alone. 

He and Sherlock are lying together, sprawled out in his bed, arms touching, criss-crossed on top of each other. Where their skin makes contact, Jimmy's every layer hums. Though he'll never say it out loud, or act it out, he often catches himself fantasizing about pressing his lips against Sherlock's. It's odd, as he's become nearly _obsessed_ with trying to deduce how his skin would taste. How _warm_ it'd feel. 

Jimmy tries to push those thoughts away, focusing on the reality of the situation: _it'll never happen._

He's given the little room a cursory look-over, but he's already envisioned it to have much of what he sees: science textbooks, both antique and contemporary; skeletons, either real or plaster, Jimmy hasn't given them a hard enough examination to tell; model airplanes, trains, cars, dinosaurs; single bed, cluttered desk, nightstand, dresser — all of this somehow added up to the beautiful creature laying beside him on the mattress.

"So… how was it?" Jimmy asks leaning forward a bit, but not separating their arms, rummaging around in his coat (hanging on a nearby chair) pocket for the cigarettes. 

They had just staged another murder. The first Jimmy had actually done in three years. 

It was an older boy who had punched Sherlock in the face, called him, "poofter" and told him he'd do it again. The notion of revenge hadn't been mentioned in their letters, even covertly, but they were both secretly _craving_ it. Sherlock wanted to know what it felt like, but mostly wanted to experience something Jimmy had. _Anything to be closer to him…_ he thinks pathetically, "I'm not sure." 

This one was easy — they used the same poison administered to Carl Powers, and no one was any the wiser. While the idiot seized up driving his car, Jimmy and Sherlock were safely tucked away in their own little world. It wasn't so much about the murder as it was showing Sherlock that everyone and anyone was easily disposed of; taking care of problems was just _that_ simple.

"It was so easy, it didn't even seem real." Sherlock continues, feeling an uncomfortable lump of apathy developing in his stomach, _even the things I do have no effect outside of the two of us… I am truly not a part of the world beyond._

The news would pop up eventually, but for now, they relished in the ignorance of the populace: they'd always have this secret. 

They pass a solitary cigarette between them, the end lightly damp from each other's mouths. As Sherlock brings it to his lips, it gives him a strange feeling — it's not the nicotine, though that isn't helping — he can't help but think it has to do with Jimmy's saliva. _An indirect kiss._ He thinks vaguely, then shakes his head: surely, he's not gay.

Sherlock inhales for a moment, then admits sheepishly, "It's my first murder." Though Jimmy already knew this — he'd known of Sherlock's tendency towards "good" since he'd laid eyes on him.

Jimmy ruffles his hair, which had recently developed subtle red highlights, "Then I guess today is the day I ruined your innocence." 

It is with the utmost respect that Sherlock replies, "Thank you."

"Anytime, darling." 

It's the first time Jimmy uses a pet name. They smoke a little while longer before Jimmy swings out the window to catch the next train.

Sherlock doesn't want him to go. 


	8. Sherlock, age 15

Sherlock worries. He worries _all the time_. 

Not about the murder, not about getting caught. No, he'll probably never worry about such a triviality; they'd taken great lengths to make sure it was untraceable. The boy's life meant nothing to Sherlock, so he'd never feel guilt (if he _had_ real feelings at all). Maybe even _less_ than nothing, seeing as the drooling idiot had tormented Sherlock for something that wasn't even _true_. 

It's exactly _that_ which bothers Sherlock: he feels _nothing_ about it. That bulge of apathy he felt that day hadn't faded, if anything, it grew bit by bit each day. _What does this say about me? About the value of my own life?_ And so, he worries the answer is "nothing." 

He _had_ thought doing something so destructive and irresponsible would spark _something_ in him. He _had_ thought doing it with his best friend would be thrilling, or somehow bring them closer together. 

And perhaps from Jimmy's point of view, it had. But to Sherlock, it was a puff of smoke as intangible and meaningless as the dust motes floating around in his windowsill. He exhaled a breath he didn't even know he was holding, and turned his attentions to three letters sitting on his desk. 

It had been about six months since the murder, and at first he had written back to Jimmy, that was all fine. But as this indifference grew in him, he found it harder and harder to respond, until about two months ago, he stopped altogether. It seemed to have spread to all parts of his life: letters, eating, sleeping, going outside, moving, talking. He'd gotten very thin, pale and weak. 

Until then, they had a really fast-paced response time, even more so than before the murder. Sometimes only three days apart, provided Mycroft wasn't home to spy on Sherlock's ministrations. But the stuffy college graduate wasn't home this time, and Jimmy knew it. In fact, the flabby ponce had his own flat now, some job he refused to talk about, and only visited during holidays. 

After the first week with no response, Jimmy sent another letter, arriving the next day. It was written plainly, with no puzzle or code:

 

**Dear Sherlock,**

 

**Did something happen? Did brother dear spring a surprise visit?**

 

**-Jimmy**

 

He hadn't. But Sherlock didn't write back, hoping he would feel _something_ either way. Guilt about not writing back, about making Jimmy worry. However, the feelings never come, and Sherlock withdraws into himself even more than normal — the world is turning gray, endless, boring gray. 

The second letter arrived on his fifteenth birthday, about a month later:

 

**Dear Sherlock,**

 

**Happy birthday, sorry about the weather. I hear London is so dreary this time of year.**

 

**-Jimmy**

 

It's a subtle invitation, the subtext reading: _It's not really any better here, but I'd like to see you; wish you a proper happy birthday. I don't really mind that you haven't responded, just confused. Do you hate me now?_

Sherlock had almost jumped on the next train. He was _so_ _close_ — he'd gone to the station and everything. Whatever was left of his feelings for Jimmy were so far from _hate_ … he just wished they were _clearer_. He wanted to feel what he felt when their bodies touched. When he idly tasted Jimmy's saliva. _Really… it might've been the only thing I've ever —_ he stops his thoughts, worried where they might lead. 

The last letter he received, about a week ago, was short, but said all that was needed: 

 

**Why the cold shoulder?**

 

No greeting. No signature. Jimmy was either very worried or very upset. More than likely both. Somehow, Sherlock knows for certain this is his last chance to give an explanation, and that Jimmy won't come for him again. Won't write to him again. Won't pursue this friendship any longer.

Falling face-first onto the bed, Sherlock cries for the first time since infancy — it wasn't that he didn't _want_ to respond, he just didn't know what to say. 

He doesn't write back. Salt water soaks his pillows, his sheets, sometimes it paints the tiles in his shower. When he isn't at school, he's taken to hiding in his armoire. 

Trying to make other friends, Sherlock is mocked and rebuffed. For a few months, he pretends to be normal, mundane. He keeps his thoughts to himself, and actually acquires a few companions. But it isn't to last; they all bleat about the same things, day in and day out, with little regard for anyone else. _At least I have the courtesy of being interesting…_ But he doesn't say what's on his mind. He just smiles and nods, perhaps says "yeah" or give some noncommittal grunt.

It becomes too much — since he'd always been candid, he never learned how painful it was to keep everything in. To see when people lied and not point out how he knew. To know their weaknesses, allergies, secrets, everything they had done, and _not_ showing off how clever he was soon took its toll. 

Sherlock returns to his original mindset, and the other teens run away from him, call him _freak_ again. He isn't any happier. 

When he realizes he's pushed away the only other person in the world that understands him, that cares about him, that treasures him, Sherlock turns to drugs. 

It's the first time Sherlock discovers cocaine. Of course, if any of his family found out (and oh, Mycroft would _love_ to catch him), he'd probably never see the inside of his home again. _Perhaps they'll send me to an insane asylum to rot_ , he chuckles darkly, _the black sheep of the family belongs elsewhere._ It's not the biggest threat, Sherlock thinks he might actually like being sent away, but he views it as a challenge to sneak around his kin when they deign to pay attention to him.

Alone in the manor for months at a time, he learns how easy it is to hide things from the service staff.

 


	9. Jimmy, age 15

**Why the cold shoulder?**

 

It had been a month since the letter arrived, and still no reply.

Jimmy obsesses over the last letter he sent to Sherlock, _closer to a sticky note, really…_ He doesn't understand why his friend is avoiding him, but he undeniably is. At first he considered the idea that Mycroft had figured out what they were up to, but he dismissed it quickly, _if it were the oaf's doing, Sherlock would try even_ harder _to keep our conversations going. He so does love to defy him…_

_And it couldn't have been the murder he's upset about… or else he wouldn't have kept writing to me at first. We wouldn't have been so… touchy-feel-y right after._

_And it wasn't anything I said in my subsequent responses… there was nothing to be offended by!_

_Does he even get upset? No, he's too logical for that…_

Which left Jimmy with only one conclusion: Sherlock was intentionally ignoring him, reasons unknown. And since he didn't reply, he obviously didn't feel like giving an explanation. _Well fine,_ Jimmy thinks, mentally writing Sherlock off as a failed attempt at connection, _I don't need you anyway_. _I don't need anyone._ Jimmy always knew there was a reason he avoided people, other than them being stupid, and apparently he needed the awful reminder: people will always disappoint him.

While he waits to forget about Holmes the younger, Jimmy decides to pick up a hobby. He goes with drawing and sketching — he loves art, always has. _Sherlock didn't appreciate art quite as much, but he expressed love of romanticism… the darkness, the music paired with it…_ Shaking his head, Jimmy fights his tendency to connect everything in his life to his best friend. _Ex-best friend. Ex-_ friend _, period._

By some extreme stroke of fortune, he's a natural talent. 

Charcoal becomes his favorite medium; for some reason, he abhors color. _Well… not "some reason…"_ Jimmy thinks, ripping up a watercolor painting he'd done of a landscape, _The world just isn't interesting enough for color… it's all just gray. Varying shades of darkness._ Even his memories begin to blur together in a mess of _gray_.

Weeks go by. Months. Jimmy gets better and better, papering his room with landscapes, stills of various objects, abstract snapshots of broken, bleeding realties. It distracts him from his father's worsening alcoholism and the fact his mother hasn't been around since _before_ he visited Sherlock. _Wonder if she's coming back this time…_ Of course, she's returned every time before, but she's never been gone _this_ long, _And the last time I inquired to father if about her return, he broke my arm._

There's a pile of unfinished work in the corner that he hates looking at, because the subject happens to be… 

No matter how much time passes, Jimmy will almost always sketch something that has to do with Sherlock. Trying to remember the exact pattern in those clear blue irises (somehow, his memories of Sherlock's colors remain intact and vibrant), the points of his cheekbones, the exact number of curls on his head.

Eventually, Jimmy gives up his attempts to repress his brooding over the genius-idiot — thinking of him, the sorrow ( _heartbreak_?) he'd inflicted, Jimmy produces much higher quality work. Romanticism was all about _feeling_ , and putting it into the creation. Even if he had to be away from him, and there was still no word, Sherlock still affects him in the strangest ways. 

 _I'll wait a year_ , he thinks, shading in the fullness of Sherlock's lips, _If I still can't get him out of my mind… I'll just have to make him see._

It's the first time Jimmy realizes the extent of his feelings — he misses Sherlock. 

But he doesn't "miss" people. Afraid of what it might mean, he boxes it away in some remote corner of his mind databank. But because of this foreign, not entirely unwelcome feeling, he knows, if only subconsciously, that he must be in love. 

 


	10. Sherlock/Billy, Over the Next Few Months

Curled up under slabs of covers, Sherlock doesn't move. 

He hasn't properly moved in _weeks_. Oh sure, he'll go to school when he's kicked out in the mornings. He'll take baths when he's ordered to. Servants set trays of food outside his door, which he usually denies and leaves in the hallway. He eats at least what equates to one full meal a week. Consequently, he's lost a few pounds.

But he feels no pain of hunger — his newfound penchant for opiates (mostly the Vicodin pills he'd been able to pickpocket off other students) had taken most of his sensations away. Whatever is left feels good, like bubbles caressing the undersides of his skin. Taking care of him in ways that no person ever could, easing him into the numbness of oblivion. With the help of the linens, he cannot see, acting in tandem with the drugs to replicate sensory deprivation. This is what he wants, a shield of solitude. 

And after what he did to Jimmy, he feels it's all he deserves. 

"Billy?" An uncharacteristically soft voice emerges from the sea of foam. 

"What do you _want_ , Mycroft?" Instantly Sherlock is annoyed, not just at the nickname his brother refuses to drop, but that anyone else _exists_ , "Aren't you supposed to be at uni?"

"Long weekend." He hears Mycroft trod toward his bed, still not removing the blankets, "I wanted to see if you were alright."

"I'm _fine_." Sherlock spits, the venom muffled by the cushioning, "Don't act like you care."

"I'm not _acting_ , Billy." The bed dips as the younger of the brothers feels the older sitting, "The concern is genuine. Your school reports that you've been in a daze."

"What would you rather? Me in a daze, or me terrorizing and back-talking?" 

"Billy, I'd prefer _leagues_ of your sass to your apparent depression."

"Please. I'm too good for _depression_."

"But not _drugs_ , obviously." 

Sherlock inhales sharply, "When shall I expect mummy to jump down my throat about this?" 

"Never." Mycroft sighs, "I'm not here to _police_ you. But you were naïve to think I wouldn't notice." 

"Most astute observation: your failure of a brother, who has been _acting_ like a _junkie_ , _might_ be on drugs. I can _definitely_ see how you're the smart one." But Sherlock is intrigued: his snitching, goody-two-shoes, excuse for a brother is keeping a _secret_. From their _parents_ , no less. One that would turn Sherlock's life on its ear if revealed.

"Billy." He pleads, "I don't think you're stupid, but _drugs_ — "

"Get out." 

Mycroft doesn't budge, neither in body nor tone, "Can you at least look at me when we're talking?" 

" _We're_ not _talking_ ; _you_ are being a _prat_."

"Fine." Mycroft sounds hurt, but Sherlock is too far in his own head to care.

For a while — an agonizingly long while, in Sherlock's mind — Mycroft stays. They say nothing. Sherlock makes no further attempt at antagonizing him, and his brother makes no more attempts at "reaching" him. 

Finally, after what seems like forever, Mycroft places a hand on the lump that most resembles Sherlock's shoulder, "When you're ready… know that I care." He leaves quietly. The floorboards don't even squeak.

It isn't the last time Mycroft will try and speak frankly with his little brother, and it's certainly not the last time he'll try when Sherlock isn't ready. But for now, he will retreat, saving the battle for a different day.

He'll never admit it, but Sherlock is still damaged by Mycroft's initial spurning. _You were my everything… and then so was Jimmy… and now you're both gone. Everyone leaves._

_But no one can leave if I don't let anyone in._

Half an hour later, when Sherlock is absolutely certain his guest had gone, he replies, "Piss off."

 


	11. Jimmy + Sherlock, age 16

The sunshine is intense. School is letting out for the term, and it seems as if the weather wants to celebrate as Sherlock ambles out of the hallway, alone. Bleary, he's skipped his dose today — it had occurred to him many times it'd transformed from a fun habit to an actual addiction, so he'd begun to taper off. 

Still, on dreadfully lonely, sunny days like this, Sherlock wished he could take enough grams to snuff out a mammoth. Forget that there was only one person who actually called him "Sherlock." Forget he'd had company worth having once. Forget he'd pushed him away…

Furiously shaking his head to clear himself of these thoughts, he busies himself thinking of the experiments he'd finish up when he got home. _The mold I collected from the ceiling should be growing nicely. Those cow livers will be coagulating nicely, wonder if mummy's maids have found the maggots yet…_

As he crosses the courtyard, he's so distracted with _not_ thinking about Jimmy, that he doesn't notice the shorter teen standing in the parking lot, "I like the uniform. Suits you."

"Jimmy, how — ?" The prep school boy is convinced he'd lost his mind, _Jimmy can't possibly be standing there. Not after…_ He then casts a downward look, a bit embarrassed Jimmy has finally seen him in his posh uniform — khakis, white button-up, navy sweater vest. 

"Sixteen now, remember?" Jimmy is dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt, hair a ruffled mess as his friend perfectly remembered. There were a few additions, Sherlock notes, most prominently a metal bar in his ear — an "industrial" piercing, he'd heard it called. In fact, he had several more little hoops, all in his left ear. "I can drive." The statement rattles Sherlock's attentions elsewhere.

Sure enough, the aghast teen looks behind Jimmy, who he now sees is sitting against the hood of a somewhat shiny sports car. _Barely used_ , Sherlock thinks, _His father probably 'gifted' it to him_ … he prefers to pretend Jimmy doesn't blatantly defy his father's orders. Or the law. Sherlock also pretends he doesn't do the same.  

"You came just to see me?" Sherlock asks in disbelief, _After the way I ignored you?_

Jimmy shrugs, but it's not an apathetic gesture, _of course I came to see you, idiot. Was that even a question?_

They get in the car, drive around London. For a while, they don't speak, a lurking tension between them as they try to remember how their relationship worked. Eventually, they talk of mundane things: school (boring), family (awful), any trivial news. They make fun of Sherlock's brother, whose run off to work for government, and gained a copious amount of weight. Jimmy shows some concern when Sherlock mentions he had dabbled in drugs; Jimmy can clearly tell from Sherlock's physique and tired eyes that it was far more than "dabbling," but lets his friend lie. 

But now that he has Jimmy back, Sherlock's desire for drugs has completely evaporated. Sherlock wishes he could tell him that, but he worries it's too soon. Too intimate. 

When the subject of "friends" comes up, neither have anything to say.

They laugh about it. 

Suddenly, it's as if nothing ever happened, as if Sherlock had never felt so cold and empty. He's full, happy, warm, fluttery whenever Jimmy looks at him too long. The letters, or lack thereof, aren't discussed. The absence isn't mentioned. 

Like before, Sherlock sneaks Jimmy in through his window (they park the car a few miles away and walk together, holding hands), and they fall into bed, talking for hours. 

That night, for the first time, they don't part. They fall asleep together, either purposefully or accidentally, neither gives too much thought to it. Both _wanted_ it, secretly, just letting it happen as the night sets upon them, drifting off so naturally.

Sherlock isn't even fully aware it's happened until he wakes the next morning. Jimmy is still fast asleep, so he takes a moment to think about the evening; it was the first uninterrupted night of sleep he can remember having in weeks. No restlessness, no insomnia or endless, intrusive thoughts. Pure bliss, just listening to Jimmy breathe.

Embarrassingly, it's the first time Sherlock wakes up with an erection. He doesn't quite understand what's going on; of course he'd been _educated_ on his body's functions, but he'd never _experienced_ them before. To make matters worse, he is only half-hard… until he stares at him just a hair too long and the hormones start kicking in. Immediately, he's overwhelmed with uncontrollable urges to rut against his sleeping companion. Painfully, he resists.

That's only the first of many struggles. Every other weekend, Jimmy visits. Sometimes consecutive weekends. And though they never talk about it, Jimmy will always spend a night or two, always sleeping next to Sherlock. 

During this time, Sherlock notices many things: Jimmy naturally smells like pastries, sweet, light, fresh. His skin is soft and warm, though his toes sometimes are impossibly cold, no matter how many covers they have. In the mornings, when he first wakes up, Jimmy looks dazed, as if he can't remember where he is. Then he looks at Sherlock and it's like he's watching the sun rise.

It makes Sherlock's heart swell. He even forgets how hideous he must look after sleeping — his curls wanting to bunch into knots when they're left alone that long. But Jimmy doesn't seem to mind: he looks at Sherlock all the same.  

However, it wasn't all so easy. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to notice that Jimmy comes by some weekends with injuries. Sometimes it's a healing black eye, or a cigarette burn on the arm. One weekend, Jimmy comes over with a lump of gauze taped just below his left shoulder, a clearly fresh wound under it. Jimmy doesn't mention it, neither does Sherlock. But he still worries (finally not about _himself_ ), and wonders where it all comes from. 

And then there are the nightmares. 

The first few nights are calm, both sleep well. But as it gets more routine, automatic, comfortable, Jimmy sleeps fitfully. When it was mild, Sherlock could easily sleep through it and be none the wiser. But as the nights continue, it gets worse. 

Thankfully he doesn't full-on scream, as that would probably at least alert the occasionally-visiting Mycroft to the unknown guest, but Jimmy thrashes. Whimpers. Wakes up with a start, broken out in a cold sweat, terrified of some dark figure that he apparently doesn't remember in the mornings. 

The first time Jimmy wakes up crying, Sherlock has no idea what to do. 

It's about three in the morning, and Sherlock is woken suddenly by the faint shaking of his bedmate. Then he hears the choking sobs. Having never seen someone so vulnerable before, Sherlock's only point of reference is what he's read in sappy romance novels. 

There's an awkward moment as Sherlock weaves his arm around Jimmy's waist, pulling him close, the smaller boy's head now resting against Sherlock's chest. He wonders if he's done something wrong, as his friend has now frozen completely. But Jimmy hastily buries his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, breath normalizing. 

In mere moments, Jimmy has fallen back asleep. Sherlock, however, can't relax with his heart beating well over the healthy range.

It's at this point Sherlock realizes two things:

One, he's in love with his best friend. 

Two, he can never tell him about it. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it will still be a few years before he discovers Jimmy has already come to the same conclusions. Despite being two geniuses, they're not always that smart. 

The next morning, Sherlock finds he managed to get some sleep, waking to find giant brown eyes staring up at him, a warm body still pressed snugly against his own. He lets go and he and Jimmy get dressed. They never talk about it. 

Much to Sherlock's secret delight, despite not discussing it, it continues. He feels almost guilty, like he's taking advantage of Jimmy's night terrors, but can't help but feel fuzzy whenever he can touch him in such an intimate way. His usually logical brain finds itself rationalizing it all — _it affords Jimmy comfort, so what if it's somewhat self-serving? Everyone does_ something _selfish once in a while…_

Sherlock still doesn't like it, wondering if it made him like all the others who used Jimmy. _Ordinary._

His guilt is entirely assuaged when two weekends later, Jimmy goes to sleep, already cuddled up to him. 

It's the first time either of them has ever felt "loved." They silently decide it's okay.

 


	12. Sherlock + Jimmy, age 17

The more time Jimmy and Sherlock spend together, the less they say. Most would see it as a bad thing, a signal of a dying friendship, but not them. There's just no more need for words — Sherlock, who can't draw worth a damn, will play violin. Jimmy, who has no interest in musical instruments, will sketch the intensity on Sherlock's face as he lets the notes flow. Or perhaps illustrate something abstract that comes to mind with the bends of the melody. 

He especially likes opera. 

Jimmy doesn't say it out loud, but Sherlock picks up on it after he plays the overture from _The Thieving Magpie,_ and Jimmy produces a very impassioned depiction of the bird's black and white plumage. 

It's not that communication has ceased, it's that it's taken new form. Seeing each other's inner self through their art — the silence between them is more meaningful than years of conversation between anyone else. Silence is understanding. And yet, the most exhilarating moment that occurs is sometime in May, spoken in five words:

"I got in to Cambridge." Jimmy grins. It's another one of their sleep-over weekends together, and though he had never mentioned it aloud, Sherlock had secretly been worrying about his move to university. 

While it certainly wouldn't be the largest or most challenging barrier in their midst, he'd harbored a fear that it might drive a wedge between them. Despite his many complaints about the manor, privacy was an indispensable feature, especially when it came to being with Jimmy. 

Sherlock bolts upright in bed, unintentionally flinging Jimmy off of him, "You didn't even tell me you applied!" 

"Well, I wasn't _guaranteed_ a spot, pet, and didn't want to get your hopes up just to have them dashed."

In truth, Jimmy _did_ apply to Cambridge so he could be with Sherlock. However, it wasn't the _only_ reason: Jimmy had big plans for the future, and gathering connections was a prerequisite for the job. University, especially one with such a high reputation, which attracted the best, brightest or richest, was the best way to do that. But for now, his only immediate goal was Sherlock's praise. 

"You still should've told me!" Sherlock is happy, but can't find the words to express it, so he settles for letting strings of confused nonsense rush from his mouth, "I would've wanted to know and —"

"You're so darling when you're happy." Jimmy displays all of his teeth, melting Sherlock's irrational proclivities away. Jimmy brushes his hand against Sherlock's cheek, "Now we can be together without hiding anything. Away from all _this_." He gestures around the room with his free hand, referencing the whole establishment of the Holmes' estate, and all it stood for.

Sherlock, heart in his throat, can think of nothing better to say than, "Yeah." 

"We could be roommates." Jimmy offers abashedly, "I mean, if you wanted. That way, no one would look twice if we were together all the time, and we wouldn't have to —"

"Of course!" Words are still difficult to find, he wants to say more, say something clever or more enthusiastic, but now Sherlock can't help but find his attentions focused on Jimmy's lips.

It is unmistakable — Jimmy can see it. The way their eyes no longer meet. The rosiness in Sherlock's cheeks. The ongoing tremble in his hands. His own eyes shift downward, now prospecting that perfect cupid's bow shape of the taller boy's mouth. So badly does Jimmy want to lurch forward and claim those lips for his own. 

Slowly, they feel themselves leaning in, as if the very air is magnetically charged with their desire. 

"What exactly is going on here?" Mycroft's smug voice wafts in from the doorway, the door slowly creaking open, shiny black shoes edging themselves in as the eldest Holmes boy takes in the scene, _So my suspicions were correct, then. Pity. I'll have to inform mummy someday that she should expect no grandchildren…_

 _Dammit_ , Sherlock curses, both boys jerking backward like they'd been shocked. Trying feebly to hide Jimmy from his brother's line of sight, Sherlock deliberates, _The prick must've come home early to make me miserable_. _But he already knows Jimmy is here… what do I even say? How do I explain_ this _?_

"William, a word in the hall, please?" Mycroft's tone is even, unyielding to any hints of what was to come, but only uses his younger brother's full name in a serious situation. Sherlock casts Jimmy a wary look, who is squeezing his hand comfortingly, trying to transfer him any confidence he can. The taller boy creeps out of bed and shuts the door lightly behind him.

"Hmmm. I knew you were hiding _something_ , Billy — mummy relayed that you were complaining far less — but I never suspected _this_." Mycroft was looking regal; he'd gained approximately thirty-six pounds during his time in government. Linked with the slicked back hair, black umbrella he wielded like a cane, and three-piece suit ( _at midnight, Mikey, really?_ Sherlock scoffs internally, _and still no girlfriend_ ), it is clear he has some importance to the crown. 

It had just occurred to Sherlock that he hadn't seen his brother in almost two years. "Mikey, I'm not —" 

"Sentiment was something I'd hoped you'd avoid. For _either_ sex."

It's a stunning realization that his big brother isn't furious like he'd imagined, _If anything, I'd say he's_ concerned _… what a riot. If only our parents knew. Mummy would be so pleased he's finally shown some initiative,_ "It's not like that, Mikey…"

"Isn't it? Then why, pray tell, have you been worrying at your shirt sleeves? A soothing gesture, meaning you've got something to be guilty about." 

Clenching his fists to stop the unconscious tick, Sherlock is on fire, _You're the_ last _person I wanted to find out, brother mine…_

"I won't bother asking _who_ he is, or _how_ you came to make his acquaintance." A glint in Mycroft's eye suggested he knew _exactly_ who Jimmy was. Even if that was impossible, "Clearly, it's been going on a _while_ , and it seems to be easing your woes somewhat. Additionally, you've done a fabulous job of hiding it from our parents, so I see no reason to chastise you. It's punishment enough what you're doing to yourself."

"You won't tell them?"

"I'll spare them the public humiliation." Mycroft rolls his eyes.

Sherlock can only just contain his rage, doing so only with the knowledge that if he exploded, Mycroft might request mummy and daddy withhold him from Cambridge. Send him far away for school, then make him live with Mycroft and become _boring_. Never to see Jimmy again. 

"Thank you." He manages the most sincere voice he can, masking his urge to vomit.

"Sleep well, brother mine." Mycroft waltzes away, umbrella tapping the ground with each step. Sherlock pictures him getting hit by a train in alarming detail. 

Hesitating the return to the room, a brief moment of terror passes through his adolescent body, _What if Jimmy left? The window has served_ me _well in the past… Surely, he must've thought that idiot would rat us out, I did._ Taking a few deep breaths, he calms himself as best he can. 

Padding lightly back into the room, Sherlock is relieved to see Jimmy still there. 

"What did big brother have to say?" But Jimmy had heard it all. They both know it. Asking is just a formality. Fleetingly, Sherlock hopes they can return to what he assumed would be his first kiss — but the moment has passed, ruined by that corpulent oaf. 

Shrugging, Sherlock slides back into bed with Jimmy, entangling their limbs. _At least I still have this…_

It's the first time they're caught. All things considered, it could've been worse. 

 

 


	13. Sherlock + Jim/Jimmy, age 18

Jimmy and Sherlock had been assigned room 308. It was small, but would do for their uses, especially since they now had access to the university's laboratories and art facilities. "No more explosions in the house." Sherlock chuckles to himself as they unpack what little of their belongings they saw fit to bring. 

"I can finally experiment with paints." Jimmy returns, both struggling to make small talk as they carry out the tedious task. Neither of them are aware that the other has brought every letter the other had written. 

It's evening before they speak again, this time Jimmy breaking the silence, "I think we should socialize a bit, don't you think?"

"Sounds ghastly. Why would we do that?" Sherlock replies, flattening the last box and flinging himself on the bed.

"People can be great resources. While we are already men of many talents, it pays to have contacts." Jimmy searches for the right way to phrase it, even if he finds the words distasteful, "Besides, it's the _normal_ thing to do. We should at least try to keep up appearances."

"Dull." But Sherlock doesn't argue, "How do you propose we do so?"

"There's an orientation mixer in town tomorrow evening, free drinks. I thought we might go. Rub elbows and the like."

"But you don't drink." Sherlock says casually, but realizes he probably shouldn't have as Jimmy's breath hitches. 

Of course, Jimmy had never _explicitly_ stated it, but Sherlock had easily deduced Jimmy's father's dependence years ago. And the fact that Jimmy had never once asked about Sherlock's substance abuse outside of his direct mention (and even then, Jimmy only showed polite concern) had tipped the younger Holmes off to the fact his friend was probably afraid of becoming an addict himself.

"No, I suppose I don't." Jimmy says, calming himself, _It's just Sherlock. Of course he knows — I can't hide anything from him. He didn't mention it before because he cares. He's only mentioning it now because he's surprised,_ "But I can still go for the company. And I'd prefer if you went with me."

Nodding, Sherlock worries he might've said something wrong. He changes into his night clothes behind his closet curtains and sits on the twin-sized mattress, grabbing a book from his nearby desk, deciding to read as he waited for Jimmy to finish unpacking, "I'm going to go shower. Be back shortly." 

Sherlock smirks as Jimmy shuts the door silently, _Joy, his feet are going to be cold from the water…_

Then it occurred to him: he'd taken for granted that Jimmy would _join_ him. The room had two beds. Meant for them to sleep in. _Apart_. These past two years, Sherlock realized they'd had no choice but to sleep in the same space, but now… 

Sherlock is painfully embarrassed — he's _panicked_ that Jimmy might take that option. He can't believe it, he never panics. He hardly cares about anything at all, but he cares about Jimmy. He wants him close. _Always_. Sleeping apart might mean Jimmy will start pulling away from him, maybe find a _normal_ attachment, not just with the freak he'd met many years prior, _Maybe he'll want someone else to join him…_  

His face… no, his _whole body_ is flushing. The only time he's ever remotely felt like this was when he confronted Jimmy the first time, all those years ago. And that went away when they began speaking.

 _Perhaps_ , Sherlock thinks, _The moment he lies down and goes to sleep, without saying anything, I'll calm down. Yes. Yes, that's it. I'm just nervous because I don't know what's going to happen._

Twenty minutes later Jimmy walks back in, hair damp, donned in pajama pants and a t-shirt. He looks at the taller teen and cranes his neck to the side oh so slightly. _He only does that when he's trying to figure something out_ , Sherlock notes, trying not to get his hopes up.

"May I turn out the light?" Jimmy asks, abruptly snapping out of whatever thoughts he's had, clearly not ready to voice any of them. Sherlock shrugs and the room is cloaked in darkness. Watching the silhouette of his best friend crawl into the bed opposite his own, Sherlock tries his best not to sigh, or give too much fuel to the crushing disappointment in his chest. 

As Sherlock moves to pull the covers back on his bed, he hears a disgruntled murmur, "Are you getting over here or not?"

Suddenly, he's very glad Jimmy turned the lights off, as he's stupidly smiling into the void. He climbs into Jimmy's lavender sheets, already slightly warmed by his body heat. Taking in Jimmy's natural sweet smell as he throws an arm around him, Sherlock realizes how unbearable it would've been to sleep without it. 

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Jimmy." 

Those are the last words of the evening.

 

* * *

 

It's a constant loud din — unfamiliar music blaring from the intermittent speakers. The party was held in one of the larger pubs in the town, hosted by the university as part of a blatant attempt to get the future heirs of empires to consort with others of their kind. Sherlock, as a Holmes, was supposed to follow in his father and brother's footsteps into government, meaning he should direct his attentions to other government or foreign relations brats. 

But he'll have none of it.

Sherlock has traps himself within his head, wondering what it was like to be in the skulls of the many, many drunk teens surrounding him. Jimmy appeared to be having a blast sweet-talking some of the other maths majors, but Sherlock couldn't bear to pay attention — _his_ Jimmy was acting so _normal_ it was almost painful. 

Wandering off on his own, Sherlock finds even he isn't immune from accumulating people to speak to. 

A brunette with wavy hair introduces himself and his two friends, one also brown-haired and the other blonde, but only his name sticks, "Wilkes. Sebastian Wilkes. Or Seb, if you're feeling friendly." It's clear he and his friends have had a few pints prior to the social.  

"Sherlock Holmes." He says, extending a hand. Seb takes it gingerly.

"Interesting name, that is." His other brunette friend says, his name something like "Sean."

"Family name." Sherlock puts on a fake smile, pretending it was a joke, "I never really asked whose it was though." In reality, he _really_ never asked.

But the boys laugh. They talk about nothings for about ten minutes, on the subject of chosen majors when Jimmy shows up. 

"Who are your friends, Sherlock?" Jimmy's cordial voice chimes in. 

"Oh, just some fellow freshers." Sherlock is stunned by Jimmy's social attitude. 

"Jim Moriarty." Jimmy says, and Sherlock takes a moment to register that his companion had shortened his name. He also realizes, and he doesn't know how long it's been so, that Jimmy has taken out his piercings. What that symbolizes, he's not sure.

"Sebastian Wilkes. Though your mate here has taken to calling me Seb. You don't really need to know about these idiots." He gestured teasingly to his other friends, who proceeded to introduce themselves. This time, Sherlock pays attention. 

"Alex." The other brunette says. _Oh no, my mistake_. Sherlock thinks, but still doesn't bother to memorize it anymore than he would the back of a milk carton. 

"Justin." Said the blonde. 

"Charmed!" Then "Jim" put on a puzzled expression, "Actually, why don't I get us some drinks, Sherlock?" He offers, but Sherlock is all too aware that he just wants to return to the mathematics conversation. 

"Sure." Sherlock answers half-heartedly, not reveling in the idea of being left with Seb the whole evening. 

Watching Jim walk away, he doesn't get very far when Sherlock feels his cheeks grow warm as his friend is immediately swarmed by several girls. _In varying states of sobriety_ , he thinks bitterly. His new companions must read the pain in his expression, prompting them to snicker, the braver of the three, Seb, to ask, "You buggering or just good friends?"

Taken aback by the question (and painfully aware that Jim must be listening), Sherlock is too flummoxed to give a snarky answer, "Friends." He answers firmly, disappointed that he couldn't voice his real opinions, "We've known each other since childhood." _Not that it's any of_ your _business._

"Actually, that's pretty cool. Going to uni with your mates." Justin slurs a smidgen, "My parents plucked me away from all my friends to come here." Apparently, they had been unable to read the newfound hostility in their reluctant acquaintance. 

This seems to pacify them, and the party went on without incident. But Sherlock can't get something out of his mind. On the surface, it was nothing, but it was definitely signaling a change. 

It's the first time Jimmy introduces himself as "Jim," and the last time anyone but Sherlock calls him "Jimmy." 

 

* * *

 

Returning to their room, even on the walk back, there's a deafening silence; Sherlock perceives it as that "calm before the storm" feeling. He's correct. As Jim finishes undoing the buttons on his coat, he sounds nervous, "So… about earlier." 

"Yes, Jim?"

"You don't need to call me that."

"It's what you prefer."

"You know you're a special case."

Sherlock smirks, feeling his cheeks redden, _I still like to hear you say it_. Jim smiles back, his face falling after a moment, remembering his original intention, "When those foul cretins asked if we were _screwing_ —" 

"I'm sorry I didn't shame them properly; it was a bit startling. Until now, Mycroft was the only one who —" 

"Did you want it to be true?" 

Jim had said it so quietly that Sherlock was almost certain his ears were playing tricks on him, "Jim —"

"Sorry, shouldn't have been so forward. Don't worry about it." 

 _This isn't real_. Sherlock's heart began to burst. Several times. He wonders if indeed "Jimmy" and "Jim" were different people. Jimmy would never have been so forward, or spoken to so many people at the party. It had been distinctly frustrating, never voicing the obvious feelings between them, but Sherlock had dealt with it all the same. Decided it was better, since it would just invite more scrutiny if he were to embrace his heart. It seemed as if Jim was the bolder of the two. 

"I do." Sherlock blurted out before he could convince himself to bite his tongue. There's a beat where both men just stare at each other in disbelief, as if this moment couldn't possibly be happening.

Zooming across the room, Jim's hands lightly cup Sherlock's face, his deep brown eyes drinking in every segment of the brunette's face, desperately searching for any sign of hesitation. There is none. Sherlock wants this. He's wanted it _years_ , but Jim's never willingly let himself see it, for worry that Sherlock might not return his own deep-seated feelings. That it might ruin their precious relationship, the most important either has ever had.

But in this moment, they are both endlessly aware of these feelings and hang-ups. There's no need for words. There almost never is. 

Jim closes the gap between them. Their lips meet, and it's a deluge of sensation. Sherlock's skin burns. His stomach turns over and over. His hands shake. His eyes water beneath their lightly shut lids. He worries his heart may explode from overuse.

It's the first kiss either of them has ever had. They can't get enough.

 


	14. Sherlock + Jim, December

"Are you going home?" Sherlock asks absently on a grey day in December. They're in the library, tucked away in a study room. He's staring out the window, head in Jim's lap. They haven't been together very long, but for whatever reason, they can hardly stop touching. Presumably to make up for lost time, but neither is certain how long the other's affections have run.

" _No_." Jim unexpectedly snaps, petting his hair, their long-forgotten textbooks strewn about the desk, "You?" _Why would I even_ consider _going home?_

"Oh… well. If you were leaving, I was going to, _but_ — "

"Don't stay on my account."

Sherlock only hesitates for a moment; he's still not entirely used to sharing his feelings so freely. However, he's sure Jim needs to hear it, "… but I want to." 

Jim's breath hitches. Truly, _no one_ has ever given him such consideration. Except Sherlock, "Then we'll stay here." Really, he shouldn't be surprised, they're both the most important people in each others' lives. They're always selfish, _always_ , unless it comes to each other. 

They spend holidays together on campus. Sherlock's parents don't make any visible attempt to come see him. Mycroft insists he's needed in Beijing. Jim's father doesn't even know where he is. 

 

* * *

 

On a particularly snowy day, Jim approaches him, wearing his full winter getup, "Come walk with me." His grin could light up the room. 

Sherlock frowns, not one to want to expose himself to the cold, "Why?"

"Just come." Jim asserts, tossing Sherlock his coat and wraps the taller boy's blue scarf around his neck.

"Okay…" He hesitates, but only for a moment, Jim's determination not something he wants to quash. 

As soon as Sherlock was dressed and they were outside, Jim grabbed his hand. The taller boy flinches away, but Jim holds fast, "No one's here. Just us. We don't need to hide." His voice is a gentle, loving whisper. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock relaxes into his grip. Strolling around the campus, things seemed much quieter with the muffling white blanket. _And no other students_ , he thinks gratefully. 

After about twenty minutes, they come to a bench. Jim dusts off the layer of snow, pulling them both to sit. Resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, they relish in this private-yet-public moment. Of course, it didn't matter that they couldn't be _public_ , neither of them cared what others thought, but they wanted to be _themselves._ Which could only happen around each other. 

"I know we don't make a big deal of it, but…" Sherlock kisses his cheek, "Merry Christmas, Jim."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Jim smirks, unquestioningly returning the sentiment. 

Leaning against each other in the snowfall, it's hard not to feel the sting of the cold. Yet, their hearts feel warm as they beat in tandem. Skin buzzing, they smile at the horizon.

In a way, they're all the family each other has. Or needs.


	15. Jim + Sherlock, age 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut chapter!
> 
> But, be warned, there's a lot of cringe-worthy awkwardness.

It's the dawn of a new semester, and for the first time in either of their lives, Sherlock and Jim are happy. Every day. Every moment. They'd been together about half a year, but they have yet to lose the "honeymoon" feeling.

Each day is a flourish of color they'd never seen before. The gray that had pervaded much of their worlds was now seeping away as they bled into each other. They had set themselves and the truth free, and no longer had to hide any part of their thoughts from one another: now sharing themselves without restraint. It was like having a new pair of eyes, if not a whole new brain. 

There are rumors floating around that they're "more than friends," and while they never outright _deny_ such claims, they _refuse_ to confirm. It's their secret, their business, a private, precious victory over the harsh world. In the hands of the _normals_ it would just become another mundane relationship once they got over the misplaced judgment and absurd homophobia. This was special, and deserved more protection than the commoners' pathetic attempts at bonding.

Despite the feelings now being out in the open, not much changes in their dynamic. Sherlock spends most of his days in the chemistry lab, Jim smokes past his base mathematics requirements, already operating at a senior level. They stay up nights in the library, pouring over texts that aren't required — poetry, plays, musical theory, history — improving themselves _together_ , acquiring knowledge in order to better challenge the other. 

If he's feeling more sentimental, Jim will make a quick sketch of Sherlock doing something trite — reading, writing a paper, rehearsing a violin piece in his spare moments — and use it to practice oil paints. Sherlock gets embarrassed, but compliments them all. Of course, Jim thinks they're garbage, _but at least the subject matter is dashing._

They hold hands under the desk in shared lectures. It makes it hard to concentrate, but neither can resist the electric pulse they feel whenever they touch.

When they're not processing grandiose amounts of new information, they sleep together as they always had, shielding each other from the world as they slept. Jim hardly flails at night anymore. Still, they don't consider sleeping apart.

They kiss, sometimes for hours, drowning in hormones and chemical reward. But this is a special treat, as they see the detrimental effects getting lost in sensation has had on their "peers." So they resist getting too physical, no matter how much they'd both like to disappear into one another and never reemerge. Because of this imposed limitation, it's actually pretty easy to disguise their relationship as "friendly."

While they never discuss sex, or the possibility of it, they'd both like to try it. _If only for data on the experience,_ Sherlock tries to convince himself. Because of this, the opportunity presents itself, if not a bit delayed. 

Until their relationship, Sherlock had found the idea repulsive — he couldn't see how anyone could enjoy such a thing, especially when there were allegedly _thousands_ of more interesting things to do rather than get sweaty and emotional with someone else. _Sounded messy in a multitude of ways…_

For Jim, it was a trust issue. Displaying all that he is to another human being, when human beings are so cruel. But he trusted Sherlock, just as Sherlock could see the appeal in getting sweaty and emotional with Jim. 

It had been half a year, it seemed only _logical_ to take the next step. Wordlessly, they communicate that _yes, tonight is the night._ Other than that, it's a normal weeknight, though neither of them have classes in the morning in case their "activities" run late.

Jim steps in their room, coming back from his routine evening shower. 

For the first time in the vast expanse of years they'd known each other, there's an _awkward_ silence. Charged with some unknown sensation, they can think of no words, _Longing, perhaps?_ Sherlock thinks, trying to reason why his body won't stop seizing, even though he hasn't touched Jim at all yet. 

They're both nervous, though they pretend the other doesn't know it. Jim inches over to Sherlock, sitting on his bed. Neither of them know what to do, but Sherlock tells himself it's no different than when they'd make out. _We won't do anything more,_ he lies, hoping to ease his stomach, now twisting into bow ties, _It's like any other day._

Taking in Jim's appearance as he pulls him into a kiss — _damp, pajamas, beautiful_ — Sherlock feels it's too good to be true. His face is burning, blood racing into every recess it could find. Except for the feeling like he's going to throw up, he can't remember a time when he felt more like he _belonged._  

Jim worms his way into Sherlock's lap, hooking his legs around the taller boy's waist and continues the passionate lip-lock. For a split second, Sherlock considers the idea that Jim might have done this before, but dismisses it — _he would've told me._  

Any doubts he might've had were quickly dispelled as the evening went on and it became _painfully_ obvious neither of them knew what they were doing.

Flummoxed by his ability to unbutton Jim's long shirt when his fingers are quivering like stricken piano wire, Sherlock takes it off with relative ease. Mirroring his motions, Jim removes his partner's t-shirt, and it becomes clear that Sherlock is _leading_ this little show. 

 _Damn_ , he thinks, _I was kind of hoping he— well. Nothing else to it…_ Taking charge as best he can, Sherlock sets to work on removing the rest of Jim's outfit, if not a tad too hastily. The sleeping drawers are next, but Sherlock is now on overdrive, fumbling with the ties. After a few moments of struggling, Jim bats his hand away and does it himself. 

Realizing the logistics problem with removing someone's pants while they're seated in your lap, Sherlock, hands shaking, spasmodically pushes Jim back, splaying him out on his bed. Crawling over him, Sherlock practically shoves the offending trousers down his thighs. Jim's nervous giggle is cut off as Sherlock crashes their lips together again, almost painfully. Unconsciously he begins to grind their hips together, craving any sort of friction. 

Jim, as always, has some modicum of grace. His head is foggy from lust, body pulsating with _want_ , he deftly rolls so that he's above Sherlock, taking his time to proceed. Dipping a hand under the cloth, applying the slightest pressure to Sherlock's burning loin, he hums in approval as the man below him gasps. Sliding his boxers down tantalizingly slowly, Jim kisses every particle of his slender legs along the way. 

Deciding it would be easiest for both, Jim quickly hops out of his own, leaving both completely naked. It's the first time they've seen _all_ of each other. That _anyone_ has, for that matter. 

Straightaway, Sherlock has to combat the drive to swipe up the blanket and cover himself: Jim is _gorgeous_ , the perfect combination of muscles, straight lines, soft curves. Light sprouts of hair in all the right places, shading him like the most meticulous of his divine sketches. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock is all too aware of his lanky, awkward form, clearly visible ribs, all bones and scary-looking sharp angles. 

"You are magnificent." Jim says without hesitation, as if he'd read Sherlock's insecurities, eyes dragging across his body with hunger. Somehow, Sherlock believes it, _even if I know it isn't true…_ But he gets renewed courage to resume, overlaying Jim's body with his own. They both relish in each other's lips, how the arcs of their bodies seem to fit so well together, sharing the closeness of this moment. 

Hands wander, exploring every new facet they'd been previously denied. Eventually Sherlock finds his hand gripping the fleshy part of Jim's arse, the other fishing for the bottle of lubricant he'd procured earlier. When he can't see many more ways to delay, "Um… ready?" He chokes out. 

"Ready." Jim's voice is steady, but his mind is racing.

He tips some cold lube on his hand and bluntly shoves in his index finger. 

Jim swears in pain, causing Sherlock to withdraw, apologizing profusely, " _I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_ — " 

Jim shakes his head, "No, it's okay… just… _slowly_ , alright?" 

Nodding aggressively, Sherlock adds more lube to his fingers and starts by going up to the first knuckle cautiously. _No wonder it hurt_ , Sherlock thinks, completely mortified, _There's hardly any give at all…_ Little by little, he was able to sink in the first digit with almost no complaint from Jim. He uses the same process for the next two, if not slower to accommodate for the more extreme stretch.

As soon as Jim says it doesn't hurt anymore, they brace themselves for what's next. But it turns out their fears could be averted to a different day: to Sherlock's horror, he's gone limp. _Probably have been since the initial scream…_ _too focused on not hurting Jim…_

He bites his lip, stroking himself erratically, but far too nervous and embarrassed now to get any useful result. It doesn't even feel good, he might as well have been rubbing his ankle. The seconds tick on like hours, heart in his throat, feeling worse and worse as he gradually accepts he can't do anything else that night. 

"Maybe we should hold off on actual 'sex' part…" Jim offers, sitting up to hold Sherlock, who looks like he may cry. The Jim wants to say something, to assure his boyfriend that things are fine, but he feels very… not "violated," as Sherlock could never _violate_ him… but _exposed_. Something like stage fright, but not only did he forget his lines, he's walked into the wrong theater, wearing a wildly inappropriate costume. Like thousands of eyes are fixed on him at this very moment, witnessing their collaborative failure.

"Yeah." Sherlock agrees, wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball under the bed, but noticing Jim was still hard, he couldn't do so in good conscience, "I could still… for you… if you wanted." 

"How eloquent." Jim chuckles anxiously, "I don't want you to do anything you'd be uncomfortable with." 

"It's fine… I want to." _It's the least I can do…_ he thinks, experimentally licking down Jim's member, eliciting a sharp exhale from his partner. 

Sherlock's lurches are clumsy, and can't seem to get the shaft past his strong gag reflex, but eventually hones in on what feels good based on Jim's reactions. It isn't long before Jim is moaning, "Mm. Faster." He whines breathily, quickly biting his lips and gripping the sheets as Sherlock complies, muscles constricting.

" _Ah_ , Sherlock, almost — " but he's cut off by a gurgled noise as he hits his release. 

Rewarded by a gush of fluid against his throat, Sherlock swallows eagerly. _Salty, musky…_ The taste and slimy texture almost makes him chuck it back up, but he suppresses the urge, not wanting to further ruin the evening, _Evidently, it_ can _get_ worse _… still, I pleased Jim, and that's worth something._

"Sorry, I didn't mean to — " Jim begins, but is cut off by Sherlock's seemingly misplaced pride, "I would've anyway. It's okay." 

Another awkward silence as they get dressed. Settling in each other's arms, neither wants to sleep, but can't bear the thought of talking about what just happened. Eventually, darkness claims them. 

For the first time, Sherlock wakes up alone. He doesn't blame Jim for wanting to bail, but he worries about what it could mean.

They meet up after classes. It was difficult to look at each other the entire rest of the day, but they get through it. Laugh about it sometimes. Still, it's a full three months before they try again. 


	16. Jim + Sherlock, When The Dust Finally Settles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned: love and smut <3

_L'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre; Tu ne l'attends plus, il est là.  
(Love is far, you can wait for it; You no longer await it, there it is.)_

 

 _Three months, four days, nineteen hours._ Jim broods, making quick, rough, heavy-set lines with the graphite, _Feelings unclear._ He's in a hidden nook in the library, parked behind a few bookshelves and an antique oil lamp (he likes the way the creamy yellow light gives his sketches a sepia tone), doing a hasty scribble of Sherlock's body. 

It's not often that he lets his thoughts get away from him, but in unoccupied moments, Jim can think of little else — _Sherlock's sighs, his eagerness, his disappointment…_ But he likes to focus on the positives, smiling at the thought of being the first one to see Sherlock in such a vulnerable state, _even if I were a master artist, I don't think I could correctly capture that face…_

Shaking his head, he returns to the issue, _It's only unclear because I want it to be…_ Jim sets his supplies down, _I want to try again. But I actually want it to_ work. _Or at least, prove that it's not as important as everyone makes it out to be._

The mindset of "proving the world wrong" is what seals it for him: he'd try again, a _real_ try, and show everyone, including himself and Sherlock, that he was _above_ such base instincts. 

With new resolve — _even if my legs are jelly_ — Jim packs his things, slings his bag over his shoulder and marches back to their room. 

Sherlock is already there, sitting at his desk, eyebrows-deep in a chemistry book. _So unsuspecting…_ Jim drops his things, wondering if he'll look up at the noise. He doesn't. Jim decides to take it as a challenge, snatching the book from Sherlock's hands, carelessly tossing it to the ground. That gets his attention.

"Jim, what — " He begins, but is silenced by a rough kiss. 

Pulling Sherlock to his feet, Jim makes quick work of his clothes. Buttons break, fabric is torn, leaving the unsuspecting party completely naked. Sherlock, despite being happy about this development, is very confused, _After_ _the last time… I thought Jim would never go for it again…_ Yet there he was, _aggressing_. Sherlock lifts his arms, his brain finally catching up with the present, hands tugging up Jim's blouse. 

 _I don't have time for this…_ Jim thinks, mentally rolling his eyes at Sherlock's hesitance. Pushing Sherlock onto the bed, Jim slithers out of his clothes, Sherlock watching in awe. 

Looking at Jim's perfect body again, Sherlock is shocked to see how much his supposedly _amazing_ observational skills had missed: Jim was covered in scars. Circular burn marks, blotches from broken bones that had pierced the skin, a few nasty slashes of scar tissue, some raised, some flat. _And they're not new… the most recent, high up on his arm, is about three years old…_ Instantly, he pieces together that it was the wound Jimmy came back with when they were sixteen. 

Jim, noticing Sherlock's eyes travel around the white lines and blotches on his body, gets the sudden urge to grab his clothes and run away. Instead, he chooses misdirection, joining his lover on the bed, cradling Sherlock's face in his soft palms, just staring into his eyes, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Sherlock returns immediately, "I've never trusted anyone else."

"That makes two of us." 

Pressing the pads of his fingertips to Sherlock's lapels, Jim gently lays him flat on the covers. He doesn't break eye contact as he kisses a trail down his torso. 

Idly, Sherlock wonders if he'd been with _Jimmy_ the first time (timid, submissive), and _Jim_ (assertive, brazen) now. He feels a hand hook under his chin, tilting his head down to face Jim, "Don't come." It's a command. 

If that hadn't already confirmed it, it was reinforced as Jim wraps his lips around his prick — which is mercifully hard this time — while simultaneously lubing up his fingers and teasing at his entrance, _Hasn't even done this before and he's acting like an expert —_ his thought is abruptly cut off by the intrusion of one digit, _It's warm… a bit uncomfortable, but nothing I can't deal with, but I can't see why this is —_ Jim gives a particularly forceful suck, Sherlock whimpers. 

He's incredibly grateful that Jim came up with the idea to go down on him ( _his idea? One of his mundane "friends'?")_ to distract from being worked open — it's hardly uncomfortable at all now, and gives him something pleasant to focus on. But it's becoming a problem as he gets closer and closer to his release, Sherlock began to writhe, desperately trying to get just the right amount of friction… 

Jim, sensing the losing battle and sits up, lightly thrusting his fingers, placing a delightful pressure on his beloved's prostate. Sherlock freezes and yelps in surprise, the "pleasure" part properly hitting him. 

Jim doesn't proceed until Sherlock begins to squirm again, trying to get him deeper, harder. It drives both of them mad. Watching him like this, Jim is hot, champing at the bit to jump in. He soothes the ache nominally by slicking his ignored arousal, preparing to enter, but still, he can barely give a moments pause to extricate his fingers and allow Sherlock to recover. 

"Ready?" Jim pants, his entire body throbbing, begging for release, _But I don't know if I_ can _wait a moment longer._

"Jim." Sherlock's sob is ragged, fierce, thick with ardor, " _Now_." He didn't need telling twice. 

Sliding himself in, he can't help but gasp: he could finally see what the big deal was. Until now, Jim had been convinced that the hype behind sex was a huge conspiracy to get young people _married_ (an institution Jim reviled, especially since legally, it could only be with a _woman_ ), since sex outside the permanent union was still somewhat taboo, and not often talked about. 

But Sherlock felt _amazing_ — wondrous tight heat, he allows himself a single thrust. 

Time slows to a crawl, and in this nanosecond, Jim is lost, awash in a sea of roiling, white heat. Sherlock responds to the motion by reflexively clenching around Jim is such a way that he hopes will never _let_ them part, which in itself was glorious, but in the next nanosecond, the slight whimper of pleasure he makes is Jim's undoing. 

Suddenly he's overwhelmed by emotions he'd never before allowed. Time snaps back into the correct measure, giving him whiplash of sorts. He thinks he might even cry. Not out of euphoria or sadness, but out of sheer _intensity_. If it had been anyone but Sherlock, he'd run away in disgust. 

Instead, because it _is_ Sherlock, he weaves his fingers between his partner's redolent curls, leans down and whispers in his ear, "I'm glad it's you."

To his eternal elation, Sherlock responds, shuddering, "It could _only_ be you." 

They kiss, tenderly massaging each other's mouths with their own, tongues applying the slightest pressure. Jim begins to move, rocking his hips, gradually picking up speed. It's exhilarating — smooth movements, delicate touches, tender kisses here and there, skirting around the edges of something greater than either of them — Jim tacitly wonders if this is what drugs are like. Meanwhile, Sherlock wraps his legs around Jim's waist, physically begging him not to stop. Despite his vast experience, there has been no drug quite like _this_. 

Jim feels like he's the elastic on a slingshot, pulling back slowly, collecting tension. The promise of relief that will come from the release is tantalizing, but he refuses to let go until Sherlock has. He pounds into him desperately, wanting to make this as memorable (in a _good_ way this time) and wonderful as possible. 

It's over quickly, but it confuses them that it feels more like _making love_ than _sex_. Sherlock is on the verge of tears as he sobs out his climax, streaks of white, filmy ejaculate covering both of their fronts. Jim notes he should find it disgusting, or icky, but he doesn't. On the contrary, he gets even _more_ excited, and speeds up. 

One, two, three rough thrusts later, Jim pulls out, hearing that it was somewhat rude to come inside someone without permission. Spilling onto the sheets, Jim is almost identical in response, moaning, on the verge of tears. 

Love was a foreign concept to the both of them — they'd felt it for each other since they met, but what was it _really_? They try to hide their studies from one another on the subject, but every now and then Jim will catch Sherlock reading up on philosophical or biological theories on "love." Sherlock mostly just catches snippets of love songs Jim analyzes, trying to relate them to his own feelings.

Perhaps "love" was too common of a word. Perhaps it was just right. It wasn't like when they were younger — sixteen-year-old Sherlock was certainly obsessed with Jimmy, and felt like he never wanted to be away, _but did I know what love is? Do I know now?_

Jim, meanwhile, assumes he _must_ love Sherlock, but has nothing to compare it to. _Truly… this is unlike anything I've ever felt…_ Playing with his beloved's curls, Jim just tries to focus on the post-orgasmic sense of calm. How he's comforted by Sherlock's presence. Glad that the experience they'd just shared that wasn't completely awful, _I'd be okay with that. This. Forever._

They were clueless. Coyotes stumbling about the edges of an uncharted canyon in the dead of night, unable to see the bottom. But what they knew for certain was whenever they were alone, be it during sex or a study session, they felt something within them reaching out. Something metaphysical — maybe even this fabled "soul" they'd heard so much about — trying to touch each other, screaming with every ounce of its strength. Connecting with one another on some level beyond what their rational brains would allow them to consider. 

They don't say the words, but hear them in every breath as Sherlock rests his misty head on Jim's chest, properly worn out and content. 

Waking up, Sherlock panics momentarily, afraid Jim has snuck off again. He's given instant solace when he feels his arm still securely hooked around his lover's body, still at a resting breathing rate. Pulling himself closer, Sherlock listens to Jim's slow, strong heartbeat. It's more exquisite and melodic than any violin piece he's ever heard.

In this moment, he is very sure what love is.


	17. Sherlock + Jim, age 20

Being with Jim is pure bliss. 

However, Sherlock can't always filter out what he hears, can hardly stand to keep his mouth shut when he hears something bad about he and Jim. He knows he shouldn't care what the _lowlifes_ think, or even pay them any mind. Discrimination based on sexuality was dying out, but it still had a firm grip on most of the generation. Sherlock _knows_ these people are dumb, and will either change their mind, or everyone else will learn that _they're_ the idiots. 

But deep down, Sherlock wishes he'd be accepted. No one calls him "freak" anymore, but they still think it. Shout it in looks and passing glances. 

It's the second time Sherlock discovers cocaine. Jim notices, but doesn't voice his complaints — just refuses to have sex while he's high. Something about it makes Jim feel like he'd be taking advantage, and he never wants to do that. 

Other than that, he trusts Sherlock to know what he's doing, to run his own life. 

But Sherlock doesn't really; he feels like he's drifting, Jim being the only thing that makes sense anymore. He still works fervently in the chem lab, but has begun to neglect the other parts of his school life, to the point where he doesn't do his other coursework. His violin goes untouched, gathering dust beneath his bed.

Jim wants to say something, but every time he tries, he finds himself wrapped up in Sherlock's gravity. So many years of denying himself a piece of his heart, he can't bear to possibly offend him. So he lets Sherlock take his own path. 

Meanwhile, they both develop severe insomnia. For Sherlock, it's his brain never shutting down. After the first few nights of lying there, staring up at the ceiling, he gives up entirely and spends majority of his evenings practicing violin in an empty auditorium, _I'll sleep when my body needs to sleep._

For Jim, it's chronic. Had been for years. Waking up out of his nightmares, he wouldn't go back to sleep. Until Sherlock. But now that his boyfriend (who was frankly _losing it_ ) was absent, he was as sleepless as _he_ was. Except he couldn't be productive in lieu of sleep, so his only option was to stare off into the void. 

Soon after their second year, Sherlock drops out and gets a flat on the outskirts of London. Jim doesn't get a new roommate. Nights are often plagued by thoughts of his father, or nightmares that the man has somehow found him and returned for him. The loneliness doesn't help, but Jim can't think of anyone he could stand to share living space with. 

Sherlock visits Cambridge on weekends, it reminds them of when they were boys. Jim finds it funny that now Sherlock's the one that has to make the journey. But he wishes they didn't have to. Sherlock finds a job that's oddly perfect for him with the local paper: an informant. He doesn't write the gossip column, or come up with scandalous headlines, but he'll let the newspaper know any "interesting" information he happens upon. 

"Makes sense." Jim teases, "You always knew all the best gossip here before anyone else. Though, it was all accidental." 

"It's not my fault everyone is exceptionally unobservant." Sherlock shrugs as best he can while they're wrapped up in each other, "Or that men would rather fake their deaths and run off with their mistresses than tell their wives they're unhappy."

"Sherlock, ever the optimist on romantic relationships." Jim kisses him lightly, grateful that Sherlock doesn't deem their relationship "unhappy." He genuinely hopes that if ever the reporter got _bored_ , he'd let Jim know. 

They both miss being within each other's grasp at all times. They're the only people the other cares about.

Meanwhile, Jim takes more classes than strictly necessary, trying to get out as quickly as possible; without Sherlock, university is just as dull as anything else had been in his life. Even his ambition quells somewhat, hardly able to force himself through the motions of keeping his "friends." Without having his beloved to come home to and unwind his more manic thoughts, people actually worm their way into his brain. 

 _They think they're so important._ Jim sulks, _But they aren't anything to me. They're only in my good graces because they might be useful someday… but really, I could kill them and my life wouldn't change at all. They don't matter. No one does._

The parts of his personality that would lead to him becoming "Moriarty" begin to fester. Even before this, however, he begins a few… "habits."

A few of his "friends" had come into possession of an assortment of drugs — from prescription addictive painkillers, to marijuana, all the way to meth. But they had no use for them, they just wanted to sell them, but had no idea how to get buyers. "Coincidentally," Jim had suggested, "I know some rich kids who've got nothing better to do with their money."

That's how it started. _Small_. A "friend" doing "favors" for other "friends." But he knew how easily it was to get addicted — he'd seen it first hand with Sherlock, after all. Jim knew he was signing up for a lengthy engagement. But he didn't mind; facilitating a need, he got paid ten percent of the profits. Granted, not too much, but it wasn't _his_ neck on the line.

Soon, his job expands past the university halls. He wasn't a drug dealer, of course, that was rather _inelegant_ , and far too much responsibility. Rather, fixed interested parties with others. On the surface, he was quite unimportant to the process, so much so that he got away without giving his name, or even meeting people in person. 

He ran a lot of his "business" through notes passed to him, or his self-proclaimed best friend, Gavin (though Jim actually thought nothing of him… _Sherlock_ was his best friend). Sometimes, if he needed a laugh, he'd have Gavin make deals in his place, pretending to be him.

Because who needs disguises when you've got willing participants? 


	18. Jim + Sherlock, age 21

At only halfway through his third year, Jim graduates at the top of his class.

Somehow he manages to avoid speaking, as his finishing coursework made it impossible for him to find the time to write a proper speech. He goes to the party (which Sherlock declines attending), but has to leave early when the rest of his peers get too intoxicated to hold any sort of conversation.

Before he leaves, at least half a dozen girls pass him their numbers. Jim takes them politely, but furtively bins them on the way out. While he isn't sure if he's "gay," Jim has never had more than a cursory thought about the female sex. _Then again, I never given too much thought about men, either_. 

In fact, the only person he's ever felt _any_ sort of attraction to, sexual or romantic, had been Sherlock. And that had very little to do with what kind of genitals he possessed, _Sherlock-sexual, perhaps?_

When he returns to his room, Sherlock is waiting there for him. Jim smiles — no matter how he feels, Sherlock can always perk him up. They lie down the bed together like they had when they were younger, touching only the bare minimum, letting the events of the day get thrown out the window. _This is all that matters right now._

"How was the party?" Sherlock asks, not really interested. 

"Dull." Neither is Jim. 

_All drinking then, as I suspected_ , "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I was under the false impression that we were all _academics_ now."

"Some people celebrate in a more _rowdy_ way." 

"Right."

"Congratulations, by the way." 

Jim smirks. It's the first time Sherlock has shown any investment in his school life, "Thanks." Although he'd never disclose, he was sure that Sherlock already knew that _his_ approval was the only one Jim pined for. 

"What's your plan now?"

"Plan for what?" 

"You just got done with school. Generally, people get jobs, places to live, et cetera…" Secretly, Sherlock was hoping he and Jim could move in together. 

"Sherlock… they've given me a grant." Jim bit his lip nervously. 

"Oh really? What for?"

"To go for a Master's degree."

"Are you going to take it?"

"I've already said yes."

"Ah, well. I'm happy for you. You're quite brilliant, and you deserve it." _I could probably move closer to campus…_  

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Are you going to, or did you just want to?"

"Both, jerk!" Jim hits him playfully with a pillow. "See, along with the other perks, they've also allotted me a flat." 

Sherlock doesn't move, "Oh." His small hopes were deflated.

Jim, however, wastes very little time with the good news, "Would you want to live with me?"

Dumbstruck, Sherlock lets his jaw go slack, hopes suddenly exceeded. _I'm liking forward Jim…_

"I've already mapped it out, it's not a bad walk from the news office, and if you were feeling lazy you could catch a cab and — "

He's silenced by a kiss. They stay like that for a moment before Sherlock breaks away, "The answer is always yes, Jim."

 

* * *

 

They spend the next week moving both of their belongings into Jim's new flat. It isn't much, but they're _together_ , and that's all they care about. During the short reprieve Jim has from school, they fall into their old regimen — violin, painting, quizzing each other on obscure bits of trivia. They're both privately ecstatic. 

Temporarily, Sherlock even backs off of his drugs, _When Jim is around like this… when there's no one else… the world makes sense. It doesn't_ hurt _._ His mind has better things to occupy its time with. 

Unfortunately, Jim has to return to school, taking even more classes than before. In the course of a week, even though they still sleep in the same bed, he and Sherlock barely see each other. Sherlock resumes his more illicit hobby just to keep from getting lonely. 

Grateful that Jim allows him to stick around, Sherlock does chores. Dishes, laundry, general tidying, even some cooking. Jim doesn't much like it, wanting to share a lot of the "domestic" responsibility, but there isn't much he can do about it: he's at school almost twelve hours each day. _I wouldn't do this for anyone else, Jim…_

But secretly, Sherlock does it because he longs to make his beloved's life easier. There are days when Jim comes home stressed out enough to kick holes in the wall. _Jim, who is never violent…_

He's about to take out the trash when something catches his eye: brightly colored bits of paper, clearly torn up in ragged anger. Although he isn't sure why, most likely eager for insight into the side of himself Jim hides, Sherlock fishes them out of the bin, determined to find out why he destroyed it. 

Putting the pieces back together, Sherlock sees it's a birthday card, the inner scraps showing a very short message from Jim's father:

 

**Dear James,**

 

**Happy birthday. Wish you'd visit more often. Call me sometime.**

 

**Love, Dad**

 

Sherlock is appalled at the clear attempt at guilt-tripping, and suddenly supports it in the state in which he found it. Then a wave of realizations hit him: _his parents call him James. But the card isn't from "mom and dad," which means they're separated. Is Jim upset about that? Either way, he must especially hate his father… oh._ Sherlock gasps, _He's the one who used to beat him… I had always assumed it was the other idiots at school, but…_

_This is why he never goes home._

In keeping with their usual pattern, Sherlock says nothing about this discovery. However, he does hug Jim when he gets home. Jim doesn't understand why, but regardless, he relishes in his love's every touch.


	19. Jim + Sherlock, age 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. So. Whether or not canon Jim actually has PTSD is up for debate, seeing as we don't get a lot of information on his inner psyche. I know the leading theory on what's up with him is BPD, but I have been officially diagnosed with PTSD since early childhood, and I felt it was the only mental illness I had the right to utilize and talk about.

They've fallen into a routine: most of the weekdays, Jim is gone. Sherlock cleans the house,goes to bookstores, libraries, listens to his police scanner, and occasionally reports back to the newspaper whenever he's got something worth publishing. Jim will come back, they'll cuddle, laugh, discuss Jim's various equations, and how to use his designs in a practical manner. Soon it becomes clear they're turning Jim into a weapons engineer, but he doesn't seem to mind, "It pays well, right?" 

Jim doesn't tell Sherlock that he's been approached by the government. Or that he's struck the interest of MI6, the leader of which is now Mycroft Holmes. Though, officially, Jim isn't supposed to know that. 

He also neglects to mention that his drug-ring had quickly become something more sinister. He and Gavin were still "partners," though Jim was arguably the brains behind the operation, while Gavin would trust Jim enough to do whatever was asked. About a week ago, Jim had been approached to be a "murder consultant." All he had to do was help one of his lackeys (that had become indebted to him during his smuggling days) get rid of a witness. _Easy enough_ , he thought, explaining the best way to make it look like an accidental overdose.

_Seems I have a talent for making things look like accidents…_ "Moriarty" had officially emerged, but Jim doesn't yet give out his name. Soon, it gets around that _someone_ is good at "fixing problems" of witnesses or people that "need" killing. Jim works through proxy, mostly, merely giving people the information, but never taking his own hands to another person. 

Nameless or not, he'd still become one of the highest authorities in London's underground. 

Likewise, Sherlock doesn't tell Jim that he's become a functioning part of the drug scene. Does a few deals, helps distribute, scouts out those who might be useful, or future addicts. In fact, more than once, he'd been working under Jim's umbrella without even knowing it. Jim knew, of course, but the only thing he did with the information was make sure Sherlock didn't get into any sticky situations. 

_Pays a lot more than those shallow gossips at the paper._ Sherlock thinks bitterly, but he keeps the job on record so no one (Jim or Mycroft) gets suspicious. 

It's funny to think that they've been living together for more than a year now. _Actually_ living together, out in the world. And still they know so little about things each other does. But they know each other's mind, and that's all they care about. However, that doesn't mean they talk about certain things any more than they used to. 

Even without speech, Sherlock has noticed a curious behavior: whenever Jim gets too stressed, he has flashbacks. It's not often, but happens with no discernible pattern. Like today, Sherlock comes back from purchasing more cocaine (though he lies to Jim and says he was at the paper), and finds Jim sitting on the couch.

Initially, he doesn't pick up on what's wrong. "Jim?" He calls out, it being odd that his lover didn't greet him at the door. 

At first glance, he looks fine. But the longer Sherlock stares, the less _real_ Jim seems. _Eyes are glassy and unfocused…_ he touches Jim's cheek lightly, _No. They're fixed somewhere else. Miles from here…_ "Jim." He says softly, "I'm here. It's okay."

But the small touch causes Jim to jerk away, frightened as he frantically scans the room. _Where am I?!_ Jim wants to cry out, but knows on some level it'll just make him seem crazy. _But I_ feel _crazy… oh look, Sherlock is here,_ "Hello love." His voice is shaky, "How are you today?"

Sherlock tries to ask Jim about what happened, but Jim pretends not to know what he's talking about. Eventually, Sherlock gives up trying to get answers, _Blood from a stone and all…_  

In one of his less busy moments, Sherlock goes to the library. He scours the psychological textbooks and diagnostic tools until he finds what he's looking for:

 

**Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD): a mental health condition that's triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms include: Intrusive memories (see below), Avoidance (see below), Negative changes in thinking and mood (see below), Changes in emotional reactions (see below).**

 

The "see below"s directed Sherlock to more in-depth explanations about the symptoms, but it boiled down to flashbacks, nightmares, avoiding talking about the trauma, emotional numbness, inability to maintain close relationships, and many other things he'd witnessed in Jim. While Sherlock couldn't pinpoint the _exact_ event that plagued his lover, it was clear that it had to do with his home life, _his father? Perhaps it wasn't a single event so much as his entire existence…_

He'd like to read more about it, but he's already stayed out past when he knew Jim would return. _And I can't very well check the book out… Jim will know I've been trying to dissect him…_ While Sherlock acknowledges the problems Jim has aren't his business, he can't help but be concerned. 

When he returns home, he reconsiders talking to Jim about it. _Part of the problem is that he doesn't talk about anything…_ But then he realizes Jim hasn't greeted him at the door, _Oh no_. Walking through the house, Sherlock begins to worry. Usually when Jim has an episode, he's right in the living room. Then he hears tiny whimpers.

Rushing to their bedroom, he finds Jim sitting on the floor, head curled against his knees, arms squeezing him into a ball. Crying and quivering, it's the worst Sherlock's ever seen him. Approaching him slowly, he kneels beside Jim, arm winding around his shoulders.

Jim jumps a bit, _apparently he didn't even notice I entered…_ But this time he doesn't snap out of it. Sherlock had briefly read that during these episodes, he should rock Jim back and forth. Cradling him, Sherlock tries to do just that. For a moment, Jim resists, but then eases up. 

After a few minutes, the crying subsides. "Have you ever considered seeing someone about this?" Sherlock asks, holding Jim's head tightly to his chest, still rocking him. 

Jim snaps his head up, looking offended, "Why would I do that?" 

"I don't know. It could help."

"What could a psychiatrist tell me that I don't _already know_?" 

"Nothing, Jim, but it's getting worse. It has been for years. I've watched it." His voice is pleading.  

"I've got it under control." Jim gets up and walks off. That's the last they speak of it.

Time goes on, and Jim's paintings get more abstract. The themes get darker — ones of violence, self-cannibalism, rage, inevitable destruction — but he denies it means anything. Or that it has to do with anything he's feeling, "I've always liked chaos, you knew that." He tells an unconvinced Sherlock. 

It's worth noting that in all of Jim's paintings, minus the portraits of Sherlock, no one has a face. It didn't used to strike him as odd, but as his partner improved and did re-creations of classic pieces, it became prominent. _I wonder, if in Jim's world, people even have faces… everyone else robbed him of his identity, so he denies them their own,_ he theorizes, but he can never confirm without asking, _And Jim would never tell me that…_

"Do you think I look strange?" Sherlock asks a few days later, hoping to validate his hypothesis. 

"Of course not, dear." Jim coos, sketching Sherlock in his dressing gown, "Why do you ask?"

"Oh. It's just… I'm not exactly _desirable._ " 

Jim is silent for a moment, blinking as if he were confused by the very suggestion, "I didn't know that worried you." Of course it didn't, but Sherlock wasn't above fudging the truth for the sake of proving a point.

"It doesn't usually… but it's just… you've always been so… _alluring_. To everyone. Concurrently, the only person that's ever shown interest in me is _you_."

"Does that bother you?" Jim sets his charcoal down, getting up to hold Sherlock, "Others? What _they_ think? Or… what they think of _me_?" 

"You… I guess… you could do…better." Sherlock is outright lying at this point, even adding insecure body language, hunching his shoulders inward, looking down. Jim buys it unquestioningly. 

" _Sherlock_." He hisses, a rare intensity in his eyes, "There is _no one_ better for me."

"Intellectually, no, but — "

"But _nothing_!" Jim is suddenly playful again, "Even _if_ the only thing you had going for you was your intellect, I'd still chose you over all the dull pests that plague the planet." Jim kisses Sherlock's nose, throwing him impishly on the sofa, "But hey, it doesn't hurt that you're quite lovely."

Settling back down next to him, charcoal stick back in hand, Jim hums, absentmindedly adding, "I think yours is the only face I've ever really seen." 

 

* * *

 

The flashbacks get less frequent, but intensify steadily. There are days Jim can't even leave the house. 

Of course, Sherlock would generally do something about this, seeing as the man he loves is so clearly in trouble. But he's got problems of his own, _Seems I've gotten to the point where snorting it is no longer good enough_ , he thinks one morning when he wakes up "junk sick." He doesn't like that his tolerance has grown, but nonetheless, seeks to rectify the illness.

It's the first time Sherlock injects. _Between the toes so Jim won't see…_

But eventually Jim sees. He always does. 

 


	20. Sherlock + Jim, Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for drug overdose

Hands shaking, Sherlock prepares his poison, which had gotten progressively more concentrated. Cutting up a fine white powder with his expired school ID card, he can't think of much else except the next steps in the process. He's in the bathroom, and even though Jim wasn't due home for several hours, he's locked the door. 

The solution thoroughly mixed and cooked, he fills a syringe. Toes itching, nose running, he can barely bring himself to flick it for air bubbles. The second he injects, his veins sing with relief. Sighing into it, he pulls out the needle and tosses it aside — he won't use it again. But something is wrong. He feels… _too_ good. 

Cocaine gave him a burst of energy, or at least made the illness go away. No, this made him feel a sweet, blissful _nothing_. _Heroin…_ He realizes grimly, _With no built-up tolerance…_ With a sinking stomach, he notices his breathing grow shallow, _No, no, no, no, no! Not like this…_ An overdose was an ugly, undignified death, and Sherlock tried to scramble for the door, possibly call his brother for help (calling an ambulance meant jail time). 

But he only gets as far to unlock the door and turn the handle. He passes out, falling against the opening door, into the void. 

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock?" Jim calls tentatively, "Sherlock, are you here?" _He should be home…_ The flat was dark, but Sherlock's shoes and coat were present, meaning he must've been home. 

Dread fills every inch of his soul when he realizes what must've happened, _It wasn't supposed to get this bad_ … He knew Sherlock had begun injecting, but he'd trusted him not to be so _careless_ about it. Adrenaline. Fear. _Please don't leave me alone_.

Rushing to the bathroom, Jim finds him on the floor, half his body in the hallway. Seeing no proof of life, he begins to hyperventilate, shouting, "Sherlock! _Sherlock_!" He picks him up and lightly smacks his face, " _Sherlock_! Wake up! _Please_!" Tears form in his eyes as he checks his carotid artery for a pulse. A few drops slide down his cheeks as he feels a dangerously slow beat against his fingers. 

After taking a breath, Jim sees a very slight raise and drop of Sherlock's chest, _Pulse? Check. Breathing? Check. Alive._

He's not sure what to do — he's fairly certain Sherlock should seek medical assistance. But he's acutely aware of the legal consequences. _Then again, I'm not actually sure what a normal reaction to heroin is… he could just be asleep…_

In the end, he sits there, helpless, Sherlock in his arms, indecisive until he finally opens his eyes. Sherlock rasps for air, disoriented — his memories on how he ended up on the floor are fuzzy at best. 

Again, Jim has no idea what to do: hit him, or cry? Delivering a much more powerful slap than earlier, Sherlock makes no protest at the sting, some of the painkiller not yet worked out of his system. Before he can be indignant, Jim curls over, hugging Sherlock close and bawling, "I thought I'd lost you." It's an inelegant mess of words, barely decipherable through heaving breaths. 

Confused at the sudden change in emotional atmosphere, Sherlock hesitantly wraps his arms around Jim, gently rubbing his back, "Me too." It's not a lie — he remembers the fright as he was swallowed by the darkness. 

"Please… Sherlock…" Jim pulls up, looking him in his blown pupils, "You can't die."

"It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"Sherlock…" he wipes his nose on his sleeve (an act he found abhorrent, but didn't want to move to find something more suitable), "Please. At least cut back? For me?"

Sherlock bit his lip: Jim had never asked him for _anything_ before. Selfishly or altruistically, they'd always done things for each other. Suggested things, perhaps, but never _asked_ , "Okay." It wasn't a difficult request to fill; he hadn't _intentionally_ made the wrong purchase. 

"Promise me."

"I promise." 

It's still a few minutes before they get off the floor. Sherlock cleans himself up and they go to bed. After some initial discomfort battling insomnia, both still juiced from the sheer terror, they fall asleep holding each other. 

 

* * *

 

Despite the scare, and his promise, Sherlock came out of his stupor with a newfound love: oblivion. He'd experienced it some as a teen, back when he'd done other opiates. But then he had craved _energy_ and _focus_ , so he'd moved on to stimulants. Now, he was finally ready for the emptiness depressants offered him. He didn't want to encourage the swarming in his head, he wanted to _silence_ it. 

Heroin, in far lower doses, becomes his drug of choice.

Going out, he knows he doesn't come home some nights. 

Maybe.

Time smashes together, though he'll occasionally catch glimpses of his watch and see it's the next day, or even the next. But he doesn't care — in fact, he can't care about much of anything while he's high.

He knows he's become a true addict. He _wants_ to quit, but it isn't enough. It's never enough. 


	21. Jim + Sherlock, age 23

Whenever they're together, and Sherlock is sober, things are beyond wonderful, as they always had been. But those moments were few and far between, and Jim was growing exponentially sick of it.

Things are miserable. 

Ever since his almost-overdose, Sherlock disappears for increasing amounts of time. One week, then two, upping the ante each return. When he gets back, without fail, he's stoned out of his mind. Sometimes he can't even speak, and even when he can, he doesn't make much sense. It hurts Jim to see him like this, but still he can't find the courage to speak out against it. 

_It reminds me far too much of my mum…_ Jim thinks hopelessly, vaguely aware that like his mother, he wishes Sherlock would stay. Even if he was becoming a nuisance in his life. _It's a sad day when I can't rationalize wanting him around… but still, I do. Without him… well, there just isn't a "without him."_

But it changes one day, when Sherlock returns from almost two months of absence. Jim hears the door open, and, knowing it's Sherlock, goes to check on him. The man in front of him looks almost nothing like the friend he's known almost half of his life. He's paler, thinner, skin sallow, eyes empty. _He looks possessed…_

They make eye contact, but Jim is convinced there isn't anything behind those pale irises, _pupils dull…_ This idea is enforced by Sherlock saying nothing as he attempts to walk by Jim to their bedroom. Enraged, Jim grabs his forearm. 

Sherlock's arms are now so skinny that the coat slides right off. That's when Jim finds track marks all along Sherlock's knobby elbows, dozens of them. His eyes widen in shock, _when did it get this bad?_ His toes must be worse, too torn up to keep using. "Sherlock, you need help."

"Oh, really? Do I, Jimmy?" Sherlock snatches his arm back, causing Jim to wobble off-balance. 

"Yes." Jim says firmly, planting his feet. 

"Well then, how about we make a deal?" Sherlock spits, " _I'll_ get help when _you_ do." 

Struck by his bluntness, almost as if by an expertly-aimed fist to his solar plexus, Jim actually loses his breath.

"Oh, right, it's not that simple, is it?" Sherlock continues, circling Jim like he's a dying monk seal and he's a fortunate shark, eyes crazy with contempt, "It never is. But oh, _hush_ , let me do the talking, since you never do." Sherlock doesn't know what's making him say all of this. He wasn't even aware he was so angry at Jim, but regardless, it pours out, "Daddy hit you. Mummy abandoned you. It's made you into a self-hating, self-destructive mess. Still, the problem is _everyone else_. Even _me_ now. Please, Jimmy, when are you going to see that there's something majorly wrong inside of _you_?"

"Don't make this about me." Jim's face goes cold, his innards similarly freezing via chain-reaction. He hates it, but he knows he's detached himself from the disheveled man before him. _Sherlock_ had been his friend, the one person who never judged him, or belittled him. The one person he could _always_ be himself around. But if that was no longer true, what was the point of holding on?

"But it always is." Sherlock prods, now curious to see how far he could push Jim, "Because you are the center of the universe, aren't you, James?"

That did it. _You_ dare _use that name…_ Jim seethes internally, face still blank, _You knew. You thought I didn't notice you digging up my trash, but I_ trusted _you. I_ trusted _you to know what I was dealing with. Even when we were children, I always came to you when I couldn't take it at home. You were the only person… at all._

Now, it's quite easy for Jim to see Sherlock just as another _ordinary_ , another standard-issue human automaton, and distance himself accordingly. The words hit, but Jim can't find it in himself to care. Even scrounging up a scathing response seems too intimate.

"Goodbye." Jim walks out. Sherlock doesn't stop him. 

Coming down from his high, he's unsure where it leaves them, but assumes it was pretty bad, though his perception was radically skewed by the drugs. Begrudgingly, he gathers his things and is moved out before his scorned lover returns. 

_Suppose this is really the end, then._ Sherlock thinks as he temporarily moves in with one of his "friends." _Pity. I will actually miss him._

It's the first time they fight. It's the first time they break-up. Neither of them ever really get over it, leaving a cavernous laceration on each of their metaphorical hearts. "Love" ceases being a perfect, selfless feeling.

 

* * *

 

Jim graduates with honors, his formulas now confirmed to have caught the eye of the British military. He's long-since given up facilitating drug purchases, and moved on to arranging the actual _smuggling_ part; many more levels, much more demand on his clever scheming, and far better pay. Furthermore, being a murder consultant had really flourished, though he didn't take those jobs often, _just as well, the military might start suspecting something if I get_ too _involved._

He's not rich, but he's very well-off. 

However. No matter how big his accomplishments, it all feels hollow. 

Bitterly, with his grant finished up, he must move out of his flat. In some isolated edge of his brain, Jim had held some hope that Sherlock might randomly walk through the front door. Better. Wanting to get back together. 

Suppressing his feelings again, Jim buys a small house. He stays at his old flat as long as he can, but eventually must lock the door behind him, along with his optimism. 


	22. Sherlock/Billy, age 24

"Billy, this is _ridiculous_." Mycroft says exasperatedly. At thirty-one, he feels as if he's been transported back in time about twenty years, trying to get his toddling brother to take a bath. 

"Get _away_ from me, Mikey." Sherlock snarls, kicking him away, trying to wriggle out of the large escort's grasp.

The older Holmes had managed to lure Sherlock back to his house under the pretense of their parents visiting. Thankfully, Sherlock had been away from his brother long enough that he could no longer see through his deceptions: it was a trap. When Sherlock got there, he was seized by a large man Mycroft had hired to make sure his transport to the rehabilitation center went smoothly.

"This is for your own good." He sounded almost bored, making Sherlock even angrier. 

"I am an _adult_. You cannot _force_ me to — "

"Actually, I've sufficiently proven to a judge that you cannot take care of yourself, and have been granted your power of attorney." Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but cannot find the verbiage to express the sheer rage flowing through him, and stands there agape.

"Yes, not a funny moment, is it? The fact that you haven't eaten anything but injected diacetylmorphine for _twelve days_ tells me that you've lost all capacity for self-preservation. But I've been kind and cut a deal that you may have control over your pitiful life again _only_ if you attend structured rehabilitation." Then, knowing his little brother, adds, "And show _actual_ improvement."

"You can _not_ be serious." Sherlock grumbles, but knows his brother doesn't bluff when it comes to ruining his life. 

"Care to test that theory?" Mycroft's voice is a deadly kind of whimsical. 

Sherlock doesn't.

After a two-hour drive (Mycroft specially requested he be taken away from the city), Sherlock arrives. Immediately he assesses that the building lacks any sort of character, _cube-shaped, brown, looks like a box… built recently then, so they'll have all sorts of new security in place…_ this is further reinforced by the large, black, cast-iron gate that surrounded the place, _great. More to sneak past._

The halls are white. The uniforms are white. His white room is about two steps away from being _padded_. _Did Mycroft send me a recovery center for addicts who also happen to be_ psychotic _? Wonder if I get a straight jacket… wouldn't flatter my curves at all._

His room is a cell. At least, in his eyes. _Can't be more than nine-by-nine… single bed, desk, wardrobe, bars on the windows. No doubt they'll conduct regular searches to make sure I haven't snuck anything in…_ But he has no interest in sneaking anything _in_. 

Within three hours of sunset, he's crawling under the gate. Walks part of the way back to the city. Hails a cab when he gets tired. Thankfully, there's a convenient den parked on the outskirts of the city, so Mycroft will have a marginally more difficult time finding him.

 _But he_ will _find me eventually…_ Despite his delirium from the beginnings of withdrawal, Sherlock isn't _hopelessly_ delusional — his brother had too many resources on hand to be stumped for long. He doesn't have a ton of cash on him, especially after the cab ride, but he's accrued enough good faith among the dealers that he gets a free pass every now and then. _And I don't need that much… just enough to ward off the illness._

Inserting the needle into his arm, Sherlock feels a warm wash of relief as he pushes down the plunger. He falls asleep in a golden haze. 

The next morning, he finds himself back in his cell, this time, cuffed to the bed. Taking a moment to re-orient himself, he finds a handwritten note posted on the wall next to his desk:

 

**Brother dear,**

 

**My men found you in a hovel. Was tempted to leave you there, but figured you deserved an iota more dignity than dying in such filth. It wasn't quite an overdose, but the doctors said you were very close to leaving this world.**

 

**Be advised: you may break out as many times as you feel like it. I can't stop you. I can certainly make it more difficult. However, for every time you *try* to escape, I will refuse to allow you visitors for several additional weeks, varying lengths depending on the severity of offense.**

 

**Hope to see you soon. Or not. Whatever it takes to get you to improve.**

 

**-Mycroft**

 

 _Finally. A challenge._ He thinks, already planning his next escape, blatantly ignoring any offers to help him improve. To him, he sees absolutely nothing wrong. Not yet. 

It's sad, but Sherlock truly has no one he _wants_ to see anymore, and the threat goes unheeded.  _You can keep me here as long as you like, but I'll still get what I want._

No one visits for six months. ****


	23. Jim, age 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings of MorMor in this chapter ('tis going to be a slow-ish build)

"… given a commendation by the military for his revolutionary advances in engineering, James Moriarty!" A stuffy general announces. 

Jim stands up from his chair and bows. The sniveling man to his right presents him with a silver statuette — Jim tries his best to give a genuine-seeming smile. An event hall containing over half of government claps and cheers. The most cursory glance around the room would tell anyone this was a significant celebration: the government, military officials, anyone who had any sort of power in England was here. 

At the toast to his brilliance, Jim takes the tiniest sip of champagne he can manage without drawing suspicion, _Why celebrations all have to involve drinking is beyond me…_ He wrinkles his nose at the taste of alcohol, turning his face down so the crowd cannot see, _then again, they're too involved with themselves to notice…_

Yes, various guests had taken more patting themselves on the back for "discovering" Jim's genius. Only a handful of them actually did anything worth mentioning in the way of advertising the young mathematician, coerced into adapting his formulas for weapons engineering. 

There's only been one person who's shown _actual_ interest in _Jim_ this evening: colonel Sebastian Moran. He's a husky man, early thirties, close-cropped golden hair, squared jaw, hands scarred all to hell (probably more than just that), officially retired from combat, _Mmm. Forcibly discharged — a man like this doesn't just accept being taken off the front lines. But for what? He's clearly too young to have that ranking, so he must've done something quite astounding at some point…_ He has a few years on Jim, well into his early or mid-thirties, _Recreational boxer. Clearly enjoys violence._

Sebastian had sat down at Jim's table _only_ because he was the bodyguard of overseer to the weapons development program. The manager himself was an arrogant, kiss-arse prick that Jim really wanted _none_ of. The colonel, however, had made himself stand out by being arrogant, but wanting very little of _Jim_ — the only person at the even that had that distinction. 

It began with a snorting laugh of disbelief, "You ain't an army boy." Moran's gruff, mocking voice crawled into Jim's ear. 

"And you _ain't_ a mathematics type." He quipped, mimicking the man's lower-English dialect, "Yet here we are. Stuck with each other."

This, strangely enough, earned him a chuckle, "Got a little zest in you. I like that." 

"I quite like it myself. Meant I didn't turn in my ability to _think_ for shiny medals."

"Seems you're getting those anyway." Sebastian's eyes flickered to Jim's award, "From us _no-thought_ lowlives." 

Odd. Seemed he'd misjudged the man — something Jim didn't often do. Jim had taken him for a no-nonsense dog of the military. Did what he was told, and didn't question or play around. Based on his response alone, this was clearly the wrong assessment, "Tell me…" He began, interest in the man finally engaged, "What makes someone _interesting_ as you want to join such a boorish lot?"

"Could ask you the same question."

Their introduction had been a bit shaky, but somehow the man had managed _not_ to bore Jim, or be beaten down by his biting deprecation.

It occurs to Jim that, without noticing it at first, he and Sebastian had been talking on and off for more than an hour, pausing only when some of the other guests would stop by to offer congratulations, or ask about some finer points of his work. The occasional female might fawn over him. It actually _annoyed_ him when they got interrupted. 

Despite certain reservations for giant brutes, he finds himself enjoying Moran's company, finding the man moderately clever, and not above noticing those coy smiles the colonel had been sending. It had been so long since anyone had shown such _attentiveness_ to Jim's _work_ , rather than engrossed in what the _practical_ applications were. Rather, Sebastian had the desire for knowledge, for knowledge's sake. 

And while it's clear there was at least _one_ -sided romantic interest at play, Jim tries to figure out how he feels. He hadn't considered getting a boyfriend, nor rebound, nor even had the slights inclination to do so. Yet, he can't help but feel special, having someone so captivated, showing him such regard. _I haven't felt like this since_ — 

And there's the pain as he remembers Sherlock. He'd done so well avoiding thoughts of him, he'd almost forgotten what it was like. It was a bit different than with him, though — Sherlock was never like _this,_ always more concerned with his own work and issues. 

 _Still, I wish I'd brought him here, he'd absolutely hate it…_ Suddenly, his mind became fixed on the party they went to their first year. It's like watching instant replay — it starts when he approaches Sherlock, it ends when he wanders off but still hears them making assumptions about their relationship.

Then it starts again. 

Immediately, Jim silences, abruptly indifferent to whatever Moran was saying. Memory replays. 

"I know that glassy stare." Sebastian smirks in recognition, but his eyes are serious, "All nine miles of it."

"How did — ?"

"'Cause we all get it. Go to war, come back. But we're never quite the same. Sometimes we look into each other's eyes, and we're just…  not _there_." He takes a sip of his drink for emphasis, "We're back on the battlefield." 

"I've never been to war." Jim blushes, feeling as if his suffering was nothing compared to what Moran must feel daily. It makes him feel invalidated, and he doesn't like it at all. Oddly enough, the ex-colonel seems to pick up on it, "Doesn't mean you've got nothing to be afraid of. It's when the screaming at night happens, we know a man's pretty far gone."

"Yeah…" Jim doesn't know what else to say. Until now, only Sherlock had known about that. Yet Moran knew from just a look. _Experience._ Jim muses sadly, _I don't know if that makes it better or worse._

"Sorry, didn't mean to get all _personal_." Moran picks up one of his giant hands from under the table (presumably off of a weapon), enclosing Jim's. Oh. No one's ever really _touched_ him besides Sherlock… he decided he didn't mind, "I was just going to say, if you need to excuse yourself, I would understand."

Jim nods, staying for a moment, eyes fixed on his encased hand. It's pleasant, comforting, but also intensely confusing. He frees it, standing up and shaking the larger man's other hand. Sebastian slips him his number, though Jim is unsure if he'll ever call it. However, he doesn't go out of his way to scrap it.

Scanning the party, Jim finds the well-dressed, stout official he was looking for. Walking to the far corner of the room, a lone man sat with his personal assistant, who was hammering away at her phone. The eldest Holmes boy looks roughly the same as he'd remembered from seven years prior, if not significantly heavier. Jim also notes the suit is also more expensive than his previous. 

"Mycroft Holmes." Jim announces to the redhead.

Mycroft looks up, smiling deceitfully, "James Moriarty. Or should I call you 'Jimmy?'" 

"I prefer 'Jim,' actually." For a moment, he's mortified, wondering how Mycroft had gleaned his old nickname — _Sherlock definitely never spoke to him about me…_ "Unless you prefer 'Mikey.'"

"I don't generally use that term of endearment anymore, _Jim_." There's a dangerous glint in Mycroft's eye, but he doesn't address the annoyance bubbling up in him, "I should say, I was pleasantly surprised to see your name pop up in such a _positive_ manner." 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Jim rejoins, "But thank you, I think." 

"You're welcome." Mycroft raises his champagne glass, "To your future success." 

Jim shrugs, having left his own still-full glass behind. Mycroft drinks.

"I'm quite surprised you're here as well."

"Oh?" Mycroft swallows hard.

"Yes. I thought you occupied a _minor_ role in government. Only the _higher-ups_ were invited to my party. Secret missile plans and all."

"Must've sent an invite to me on accident." He narrows his eyes, signaling to Jim that he's on the verge of crossing a line.

"Or you're more important than you let on."

"Careful, Jim, you might stumble onto information that's more trouble than it's worth." 

"My apologies… but you know the _real_ reason I approached you."

"Do I?"

"Yes." Jim states firmly — he isn't sure what's become of Sherlock, but whatever has, Mycroft would know. Furthermore, he knows that Sherlock could never hide anything from his brother, and most likely their break-up was something like front-page news to the entire family.

The eldest Holmes' mouth thins to a line, "He's seen better days."

"If I were to call his phone, would he answer?"

"I'd imagine not… it was taken away when I checked him into a rehabilitation facility." 

Jim wants to be surprised by this news. But the last time he saw Sherlock, more than a year ago, he didn't see improvement being on his love's list of priorities, "How long has he been there?" 

"Six months. And in that scant half-year, he's attempted to break out seven times, only thwarted thrice. He's crafty." 

"Must be getting sloppy — the Sherlock I knew would've disappeared the first time he was successful."

"Yes, well, my men would probably have a _much_ harder time finding him if he didn't return to his precious drug dens within three days of escape…" 

Grimacing, Jim wishes he had done more, but knows better than to get between an addict and his addiction — an old scar on his upper arm throbs, _Drunkard nearly took my arm off with those kitchen shears…_ "If it was just about the drugs, I don't see why he doesn't just have someone sneak them in."

"It's most likely about being _locked up_. He also detests being under anyone else's control, especially _mine_ , and isn't allowed visitors unless I approve."

"Then I'd like your permission to visit him." He asks automatically, remotely wondering if he'll regret seeing his beloved in such a state. But he needs to. If it'll help Sherlock at all, he wants to be there. 

Frowning, Mycroft looks like he'd rather eat a jar of live flies, but concedes, "We're both rational men, Mr. Moriarty, and we seem to have the same goals, at least in this instance." 

"Yes, we'd both like him clean. I'm _listening_."

"I'll allow your visit. As many as you'd like. Or, if it's too difficult, you can lie to Billy and say I've only approved of one." The MI6 agent scans Moriarty's face for some reaction that'd say he had any hope of keeping the mathematics genius from his brother. He finds nothing, "But if I grant this, I'd like your word that you'll try to talk some sense into him."

"I'll _try_." Jim promises. Really, that's about all he can do, no longer sure Sherlock will even listen to what he has to say.

It's the first time he conspires with Mycroft. It makes him feel dirty, but Jim reasons that Sherlock is worth it. 

Sherlock never thanks him. 


	24. Sherlock + Jim, The Next Day

It was an okay day. 

Sherlock stares out the window, trying to memorize each color and plane in the neighboring forest. While he does so, he drags a too-large brush over a canvas. As part of his therapy, his counselor suggested taking up a hobby to distract him from the _cravings_. 

He chose painting because he'd never been any good at it, and viewed this whole confinement as a waste of time anyway. He'd escape again soon, a plan was in the works, but in the meantime, he might as well _pretend_ and play nice. _No reason to get involved…_ he thought, but he wasn't considering his therapy, _Oil paints. Landscapes. Is there any part of my life you aren't_ infesting, _Jimmy my dear?_ Then he groans, clutching at his head, suddenly on fire.

It's when he thinks of Jimmy that the _need_ is strongest. Even the slightest passing remembrance of that sweet tinge to his skin is enough to set him off. Quickly, it went from "okay" to "awful."

There's a soft knock on the door behind him, but with his current condition, it may as well have been a jackhammer. He doesn't turn around, hunched over his slapdash painting, "What do you _want_?" He snaps, taking a few deep breathes, the pain is squelched as he hears the door open and shut, _Excellent, time for my tapering medications, if a bit early…_

"That's really quite atrocious, you know." A familiar Irish accent answers.

 _There's the fire again_. "Auditory hallucinations… it _must_ be a bad day." Sherlock groans, not sure if he wants to believe the man is actually standing in his room.

"I'm not sure how your day has been, but I assure you, _I_ am _very_ real." 

Craning his head slowly, Sherlock feels like his skull may burst open when he sees Jim ( _Jimmy_?) standing there, "I see the nicotine stains on your fingers have faded." He blurts out, wanting anything, _anything_ , to distract from thinking about Jim _existing_. 

"Binned the lot of it." Jim shrugs, "Impossible to maintain a smoking habit these days."

"Then what did you pick up in its place?" Sherlock cocks his head to the side, "You were always a man of ritual." 

"Something like an _addiction_ , Sherlock?"

Despite himself, he smirks. There's an uncomfortable pause as Sherlock isn't sure if he wants to tell Jim to leave, or pounce on him, _the bed here isn't the most comfortable, and I get checked on every thirty minutes or so…_ He settles for neither, merely stating the obvious, "Didn't think I'd see you again." 

"Neither did I." Jim admits, leaning back against the door, "Really though, I should teach you to mix colors." 

"Not interested." Sherlock replies gruffly, the pounding in his head intensifying, his body beginning to quaver, "Did Mycroft send you?"

"No." Jim shakes his head slowly, "But he tells me you're not making a lot of progress."

"Of course not. There's nothing _wrong_ with _me_." Sherlock's voice is full of venom, resenting the idea of being "fixed."

"I'm inclined to agree. I just think you have poor coping skills." 

"Ugh, when did you and brother dear become so chummy? That's what _he_ thinks too. I thought he hated you. Hated _us_."

"He's concerned."

"So he went to _you_? Thought our _connection_ could spark some regret? Make me strive for redemption?"

" _I_ went to _him_." 

"What a twist!" Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Last I checked, you _hated_ me as well."

"Oh, Sherlock, is there anyone on the planet that _doesn't_?" Jim giggles a bit out of mania. 

Sherlock says nothing, so Jim continues, "I don't _hate_ you. I never did. You tried to hurt me that day… I recoiled."

"So what happened to bring you back out?"

"I thought of you. Realized it hurts _every_ time." Jim pokes his heart, half out of over-dramatization, the other half out of genuine regret, "Means you won, and you know how I hate losing."

"And now you're here, causing _me_ pain as well." He rubs his temples, willing Jim to vanish. 

"Just answer me _why_ you're doing this." Jim cries, similarly wanting to run away and never look back, "And I _promise_ I'll leave you alone."

Sherlock looks up sheepishly, whispering, "What if that's not what I want?" Allowing some of his old self to shine through. The self reserved only for Jimmy. 

Jim almost breaks as he sees the reverent gloss in Sherlock's eyes. Almost lunges forward and kisses him. Almost blubbers about how none of it mattered, that all was forgiven, and that they could just pretend they were fine. Go back to being more than the best of friends. 

But he can't. Not as long as Sherlock is entrapped by his own vices. 

"Look… I know I've enabled you in the past…" Jim begins, stunned by the barrage of feelings, _Truly, you are my missing pieces…_

"Please, spare me your apologies, Jimmy." He means to be cutting, feeling impending rejection, "I would've gotten into drugs without _your_ help." It works.

"That's not what I _meant!_ " He snaps, suddenly very tired of the conversation, but determined to keep up his end of the deal with Mycroft.

"You know how I hate riddles." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but worries he might've gone to far — the fear in Jimmy's eyes when Sherlock implied it was _his_ fault told him that Jimmy's father had played the blame game recently as well. 

"I let you be yourself." Jim mutters, as if the very air is toxic to him, breathing as little as he has to, "Which is fine around _me_. We're the same, you and I…But you're _too_ brilliant, Sherlock. You have to learn to reign it in — get a filter. Not everyone can handle the truth. That's why you're _really_ in here."

"Are you suggesting we _defile_ ourselves to the level of the hopeless _normals_?"

"I already have." Jim shifts uncomfortably, "It's bought me a nice life."

"Oh yes. I heard. I suppose congratulations are in order." Sherlock says sarcastically to hide the fact he was actually quite proud. 

"It's worth the pain."

"You want me to _rot_? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Of course not. But in _here_ ," he glances around hurriedly, "You _are_ rotting. Losing yourself to drugs… your _brain_ was rotting. Having your older brother control your life? What do you think _that's_ doing? What if you end up in _jail_? Who you are… you belong _outside_ these confines. Outside of _anyone's_ control. Out _there_ … with me." 

Instantly, the callous shell protecting Sherlock's heart falls. _With me…_ his eyes flicker to the desk drawer, where he's been stashing every letter or note Jimmy had ever written him. While the shift is subtle, Jim picks up on it immediately, blushing for the first time in years, _I still have your letters too… I always keep them close._

"I love you, Sherlock." He blurts out without warning, yet the statement is clear. Deliberate. 

These words have never been spoken aloud by either of them before. Jimmy didn't want it to be like this. In fact, he never wanted them to have to say the words at all — until now, it's been implied. That was the beauty of it all: they just _knew_. 

"Jimmy, I —" The phrase is so unexpected that Sherlock actually cannot breathe, and had no oxygen to complete the sentence, or ability to fight Moriarty when he cuts him off. 

"Call me when you get out. And don't break out anymore, _doofus_." The words reverberate through the room long after Jim had gone.

 


	25. Sherlock/Billy, age 25

For whatever reason, either out of love or stubborn pride, Sherlock takes Jim's edict to heart and doesn't attempt to break out again. He graduates the program in less than three months, focused on at least _pretending_ to show improvement. 

When he emerges, he's not entirely sure what to do with himself, but the receptionist at the attached hospital passes him a note from his brother. Usually, he'd toss it without a second thought, but he decided he wasn't  _busy_ at the moment, nor did he have anything else to do. 

Turns out, Mycroft had already put plans into place: he's been given a small flat near Cambridge, paid up for the next twelve months, as well as the tuition to finish up his degree. While Sherlock found the idea of going back to school with all of the imbeciles _hateful_ , he couldn't think of a better option. 

 _And_ , he thought bitterly, _Without any distractions, I'll probably get back into old habits._ But it's the not _drugs_ he wants to avoid. In fact, he'd love that, and practice endlessly more precautions to escape his brother's notice. But even the slimmest, .01% chance of hearing _that_ again... 

_"I love you, Sherlock."_

Sherlock could kick himself, _Says it to me first, the nerve of him… then doesn't let me say_ anything _back._ You _left_ me _, Jim, you don't get to do things like that. Well fine. If you want me, you can come get me, because I'm not going to_ grovel _like I know you'd like me to. I'll leave that to your thousands of other adoring fans…_

But even as he thinks that bitterly, he feels a twinge of jealousy at the idea that Jim might, at this very moment, be moving on. Probably to someone who had his (her?) life together.  _Meanwhile, I can't get that bastard out of my head._

Going to Mycroft's London office, he retrieves the key to his new apartment. And mentally prepares the lecture he knows he has coming, "Now Billy…" Mycroft begins, closing his office door. The man had the subtle scent of cigars and scotch.  _Must've just come back from that inane club of his..._ _  
_

Tuning out for most of it, Sherlock focuses his attentions on everything _but_ Mycroft's moronic tirade. _Clearly secret service… doesn't do a good job of hiding it. But I guess to the layman, he does only appear to hold a minor position… but he's far too meticulously groomed for that. Still no girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter. Pity, might give him something else to think about besides his junkie brother. Calls back home every other day. Alerts_ them _to my "progress" no doubt. What a shame, "Sherlock is the first Holmes to drop out of university in generations." Doesn't matter that Mycroft has put on even_ more _weight, it's positively disgusting…_

"While I'm sure that you've listened to _none_ of that, Billy, and I strongly suspect you're going to do exactly as you want with little regard for others — "

"Sherlock." He states, deadpan. 

"What?"

"I go by 'Sherlock' now."

Mycroft looks almost amused, "Fine, _Sherlock_ , I don't expect you to take my advice, but I'll throw it out there anyway: finish your degree. Then, provided that you're still _clean_ , come work for me." 

"Yes to the first part, _Mikey_ , I was going to do that anyway." Gratitude meant very little between them. _Debt_ , on the other hand, was a far more destructive, enslaving force. But Sherlock couldn't reveal the extent to which that ruled him, "But I'm afraid I have too much self-respect to debase myself by working for _government_."

"Trust me, I could make sure we hardly saw each other." The elder Holmes did a remarkable job of keeping his temper. 

"I suppose _watching me_ is far from your list of priorities, isn't it, brother mine?"

Mycroft's face hardens like it does when he's about to lie, "I have more important things to worry about than my bratty younger brother." _That may be true, objectively, but that doesn't mean your judgement isn't clouded. Perhaps, if I were to fall into addiction again..._ "Your services have been requested because of your talents for deconstructing people… you'd made an excellent interrogator. Or, due to your _manipulative_ nature, a covert operative." It wasn't an unfair evaluation. 

"A spy, you mean."

"Do give it some consideration." 

"I decline in advance. Don't ask again." 

"On your head be it, _Billy_." Mycroft says dangerously, dismissing him with a nod toward the door.

Skulking out, Sherlock is certain it isn't the last he'll hear of his older brother's offer. _I'm not even sure I'll reject him the second time… I could be a great interrogator…_ As he wonders whether or not that's his best career path, he sets up shop at his new flat (pre-furnished, though he challenges himself to ruin most of it by the end of the semester) and picks up school more or less where he left off. This time, he doesn't try to make "connections." He hardly talks to anyone, favoring to ramble at stray stretches of the wall.

He doesn't call Jim, convincing himself it was safest to cut ties now, while he didn't have to see him every day. Be reminded of his failures.  _I like being alone. Alone protects me._

It's not a complete lie.

 


	26. Jim/Moriarty, age 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings of MorMor here.

_Is this what it's like to have your heart broken?_ It's been a month since Sherlock finished up his rehabilitation, and Jim is slowly accepting he won't get that phone call. He feels fifteen again — unsure why Sherlock doesn't want to talk to him, and wishing he didn't care.

_Perhaps it was because I said it…_ Those three stupid words had apparently ruined Moriarty's only meaningful relationship. _I didn't mean to scare you, Sherlock… I was only trying to remind you there were reasons to stop being difficult for difficulties' sake…_

On the surface, he's angry. But without doing too much digging, he knows he's worried that lack of contact means Sherlock isn't coming back. That saying the words had ruined the perfect understanding they had, and somehow cheapened the feelings. Or that Sherlock was truly over him, _I guess we had a decent twelve years… That's longer than some people are alive…_

He shudders to use the word, "soulmate" but he can't find any other explanation for why he feels so decimated that he'd lost his best friend. They'd been in love since… well, Jim had felt the beginnings of it since they laid eyes on each other, but he couldn't be sure about Sherlock; he'd hoped he felt the same at some point, even if that wasn't now. But gone were the days that he'd swallow his pride and go after Sherlock — _if he still cares, he can come get_ me _. I'm done running after him._

When he's sufficiently convinced himself that he's actually _angry_ , and that he must hate Sherlock for what he's done, Moriarty calls Sebastian. 

"Pick you up at seven then, Jim?"

"Moriarty." He replies, "Just Moriarty… and yes, that sounds lovely."

Without Sherlock, or any hope of seeing Sherlock, Moriarty can't seem to find any semblance of "Jim" in him. 

The date is far from what Moriarty had been expecting: Moran takes him to the shooting range. _Odd, I've never handled a firearm before, or have licensure_ , "Is this entirely legal?" He asks as the colonel fits him with ear protection and a pistol.

"If you don't know, then it's my fault if we get caught, right?" Moran chuckles, fixing Moriarty's stance for better accuracy. Moriarty isn't entirely sure if that's true, but decides not to think too hard on it, _If he is dumb enough to allow us to get caught, or in trouble, he's not my guy anyway._

After using up a few clips, with an increasingly accurate hit rate, Moriarty turns to watch Sebastian. Gasping, he notes it was truly a thing of beauty — just by looking at Moran, you didn't think too much other than "strong." Because of that, Moriarty had initially pegged him as not too bright or meticulous. However, watching him _now_ , he was like an entirely new man: eyes focused and fiery, hitting the target each time, even when it was less than a centimeter's allowance. 

When he finishes up, he finds Moriarty staring at him in awe, "Having fun then?" He lowers his earmuffs, signaling for Moriarty to do the same.

"You've got quite the eye."

"Army didn't pay me to miss." 

"Color me impressed."

"A high compliment coming from the new rockstar genius."

Moriarty thinks something should happen. Not because he particularly _wants_ it to happen, but because it seems appropriate; in his new evaluation, "Moriarty" seems to be a creature of necessity. _But more data is needed to make the final assessment._ He begins to relax his face, as does Moran, subtly readying for a kiss. 

He's not sure if he's relieved when he phone begins buzzing. "Do you mind if I get that?" Sebastian frowns, but shakes his head. 

Text:

 

**Job available. High price tag. -G.**

 

**Left a note in the rose bushes. -G.**

 

Moriarty feels the corners of his mouth twitch up, "I'm going to have to say goodnight."  

"Something important?" 

"Business." Moriarty explains vaguely, taking off his gear. 

"The Holmes git trying to recruit you?" 

Moriarty smirks, _how nice of you to give me an excuse_ , "I guess I'm about to see." 

 

* * *

 

The job, it turned out, was an assassination paired with a frame-up. 

" _Make it messy,"_ Moriarty thinks, hands shaking, _Well… I did that_. 

It was horrible. It still is. Blood on his hands, blood on his face. Dagger he'd stolen from the "culprit" jammed in the ribcage (several different times) of a cheating wife. _They say dead people look peaceful… no, she looks quite terrified. Like an animal that's been lead into certain death… she's let go of all hope, only experiencing fear…_ But he feels nothing. Well, right _now_. 

It's the first time the body that contained any form of Moriarty has done something so brutal. His mask is slipping — he's going to be Jim soon. Or worse, _Jimmy_ , and all of them will feel the weight of what they've just done.

Thankfully, Moriarty is able to finish up the job; cleansing any sort of evidence of his presence in this woman's house. Planting the hairs and fingerprints of her lover. 

Jim tugs at the edges of his brain, _That was quite horrific. Maybe we should avoid getting our hands dirty in the future? Six hundred thousand is a lot, you could've used some to hire a proxy murderer._

Jimmy would've followed, but he's too disgusted —  _he was always the most squeamish._

Leaning down to examine his handiwork proves to be his undoing. 

For whatever reason, it only now clicks, "… _mother_?"

_How_ had he _missed_ it? He hands run through his hair, on the verge of tearing it out, raking his brain for _anything_ that could excuse his conscience. _No, it can't be her. She had black hair, this woman is blonde…_ but his stomach drops as he pulls her hair back to look at her dark roots. Her eyes were the right shade of brown. Pale skin, with a few wrinkles from the decade of absence. He knew. _No. No. No. No. No._

Somehow, he gets away from the crime scene without contamination, but it's as if he's walking in a dream. The fabric of reality blurs, being stretched and warped before his very eyes, feet numb and weightless as they hit the pavement. He knew his mother had ran, but had assumed she had gone back to Dublin. Run away properly to France. Germany. _Any_ other city in England. But of _course_ it had to be _here._ Of _course_ she had to be thrown in his unrepentantly savage path. 

Moriarty returns to his house and begins to fall apart. He begins _seeing_ it all over again, _hearing_ it. But this time, she isn't some faceless _target._ He doesn't even see her as he found her — he sees her as he did when he was fourteen. 

He can't see his living room — no, he's slipping on the fake fingerprints. Sneaking into his _mother's_ flat. Waiting for his _mother_ to get home. Jumping his _mother_ when she walked through the door. Smashing his _mother's_ head into the mirror. Watching his _mother_ feebly try to get away… then stabbing her as many times are he could before his arm gave out.

In all of that, she hadn't recognized him either. It was sad in its own way. 

Jim couldn't remember feeling bad about it, not a hint of regret. Even now, he wasn't remorseful, so much as afraid. Disgusted with how far he'd fallen. It started with killing Carl for his cruelty, to end his own suffering. What was he doing _now_? Ignoring the fact he'd _murdered_ the only parent he even sort of liked, he had just killed some random woman with little regard for her past, or what she was dying for. _If I had even shown the slightest interest…_ He stops this thought, because the more he blames himself, the more he has to re-live it. 

Picking up his mobile, he wants to call Sherlock — he'd always been able to wash away with nightmares. And he knows he'll have them tonight. But then he remembers he doesn't have Sherlock's number anymore. It wouldn't be that _hard_ to get it, but he abhors the idea of running to Sherlock for help after his callous rebuffing. _But he would understand… but then again, maybe he wouldn't… what would he even say to this?_ Jim squirms, uncomfortable with being _unsure_ how Sherlock would react to something, _He excused me from Carl, he deserved it. This is nowhere near the same. I did this for payment._

Instead, he calls Moran, unsure of what he's after.

"Hello?" The colonel's voice is groggy, like Jim had woken him. 

"S- Seb…" He's hyperventilating, _I didn't know I was so shaken…_

"Moriarty?" A confused Moran answers, sounding concerned, "What happened? Are you okay?" 

"I… I don't think so… _No_." He sniffles, "You… you can call me 'Jim' if you want…" 

"Jim." Seb corrects, "Can I help?"

"Maybe… I didn't know who else to call…" He wheezes, feeling very pathetic, _I don't even think Sherlock could help me here…_

"Do you want to meet up?"

"I… I don't think I can leave my house…" Jim sucked in his lip before continuing, "Can you come here?" 

 

* * *

 

Despite living across town, Sebastian got to the house within the hour. The door was ajar, so he let himself in, "Jim?" No response. 

Going through the house, there's very little indication that it was lived in for very long — everything was in line, sparse decorations, it was too _clean_. "Jim?" He calls again. Still no response, but as he finds his was to the living room, he hears heavy breathing. 

Moran takes a moment to process what he's seeing: Jim slouched over on the sofa, small droplets of blood on his face and hands. He'd changed his clothes, else he'd have the red splashes on his suit as well. "Well…" He chuckles nervously, "You weren't seeing Holmes, were you?"

Jim can only manage one shake of his head. _Holmes… the older one, not the younger.. right. He doesn't even know about the other one, probably…_

The colonel is perplexed — from what he'd seen of Moriarty, he hadn't pegged him as the type to get worked up over death. _Or anything at all, really._ He plops down next to the trembling man, placing an arm around his shoulder, "Who was it?"

"I don't know…" Jim's pale face is a stark contrast to the dark crimson flecks, " _Didn't_ know… It was just supposed to be a job." He leans into Sebastian's chest, craving any sort of closeness. An anchor to reality. 

But reality bends and blurs at the corners as he sees himself sinking the dagger into her chest. Into her neck as he tries to silence her screams for mercy. Over and over. He can taste the desperation on his tongue as she tried to scramble off like a wounded dog. 

"And then…?"

"I looked at her a little too closely…" Jim simpers, "She was… was…" But he can't say the words, "Someone I was very close to. A long time ago… I… didn't recognize her at first."

"It's understandable." Seb rubs Jim's shoulder, "People look different after time, but especially when they're afraid."

"Yeah?" Jim hangs on to his words, letting them undermine his guilt.

"Yeah. Barely even look human like that." Moriarty notes the distinct lack of contrition in his eyes, clear he'd done his own share of illicit exterminations, "Interesting how fragile our perceptions can be."

Jim feels _better,_ but not quite healed. He's infinitely grateful when Moran senses it. 

"You gotta learn to enjoy it." Seb whispers, "They aren't people. They're prey. For them, death is an _accomplishment_. They've fulfilled their purpose, and you brought them to it. She wasn't your friend — "

"— and she's no one now." Moriarty finishes. _They're not people… they're ordinary._ Something shifts in Jim. No, _Moriarty_. That was it: the missing piece that turned the mask into a full person, "Normal… normal is _bad_ , isn't it?"

"Yeah." Moran smiles, "It's the worst; it's _boring_." 

Jim remembers Sherlock saying something like that. _Hating_ normal, the ordinary. Jim feels so stupid now for advocating integration — this world was _never_ for people like them. _With no ties left in the world…_  

For the first time in _years_ , Jim is free. He's no longer shackled by the crushing need to _fit in_ , or _pretend_ so he can keep his precious status. _What_ is _status anyway? A judgement of how droll you are. An arbitrary measure set by people that aren't_ me. 

From that day forward, the entire world was a target. Everyone was _ordinary_ until proven otherwise. Those people _deserved_ to suffer and die because of how malleable they were, bowing to society's demands at the slightest push, shoving brilliant people like him into neat little boxes. And when people didn't comply — like Sherlock — they were forced into obscurity to be "fixed." 

It was like Moriarty had been living in the dark, blind to his own power. Until now. He looks at Sebastian with extreme respect, honor. 

They two men find themselves leaning in. But where Sebastian is full of longing and genuine attraction, Moriarty is charged with newfound authority. Regardless, he powers on, wanting to finally put Sherlock behind him — his last remaining connection to his past. They close the remaining distance between them.

Immediately, Moriarty feels off about it, _Sherlock is far gentler…_

And that one thought is enough to spark an extensive internal debate. The entire time they kiss, Moriarty just isn't there.  

_You know this isn't right. You won't ever love him._

_Do I need to? Besides, I could. Maybe._

_No, you don't. I already know — no,_ we _already know who we love._

_He isn't an option._

_Doesn't mean you should be trying to replace him._

_Sebastian doesn't need to_ replace _him…_

_Because you know he can't. There is no one else._

_Sherlock has made his choice. That doesn't mean I have to be celibate until he pulls his head out of his arse._

_That doesn't mean you should be playing Moran. You know he actually has feelings for you. You find it pathetic. Who_ really _has feelings for anyone, anymore? You're using him._

_Is there something wrong with that?_

_He'll never understand you the way Sherlock did._

_He could, I should just give him time._

_Sherlock didn't need time._

_Sherlock was special. Not everyone is going to be like that._

_You found perfection. He is art. A masterpiece. A sonata written just for you. What is Sebastian?_

_He…_

_Remember the first time you and Sherlock kissed? Moran kind of tastes the same… tobacco ash. Isn't that why you quit smoking? To stop tasting Sherlock? Your first cigarette was with him and all…_

They're seventeen, leaning in, then interrupted. The memory cuts out and picks up again when they're eighteen at uni, Jim's lips closing in on Sherlock's, making such beautiful, painful, lingering contact. The thought repeats. Over and over. Within seconds, every part of him has relived the memory twenty times, it becoming too powerful to contain. _It's like being on overload…_

Moriarty jerks away gasping, oscillating his head to the side to subdue a particularly potent stab of emotion. Sebastian knows something is wrong, but he can't be sure of what, "Err, sorry if I moved a little fast there." 

"No, no… it's fine." Jim offers no further explanation. Moran is more confused than anything, but decides not to question it, Moriarty looking clearly distressed. 

Then, he has a moment of clarity, "You're being triggered." It's not a question.

"What?" It's Moriarty's turn to be confused.

"Right now. You're reliving a traumatic thought on repeat." 

"How did — "

"That look. The way you rolled your neck just now, as if you're trying to physically knock phantom sensation away."

"It's…" Moriarty decides not to lie, since it's clear Sebastian knows what he's talking about, "It's different this time. I'm usually… crying."

"Yeah," Moran puts his hand on Moriarty's shoulder, but this time his touch is a comforting gesture, "This was a small trigger, but my guess is that you _always_ repress them when they hit?"

"Yes."

"Want my advice?"

"Seems to be doing me good lately. You have a cure?"

"No. Guessing that means you never saw a shrink for it." He shrugs when Jim nods, "Just as well, pretty useless when there is no 'cure.' All you can do is make it more bearable."

"And how do I do _that_?" _See, Sherlock? You can be wrong._

"Whenever you hit those kinds of snags… let it out." Moran shrugs, "If you're alone, or with people who don't care, just… express it. Trapped in a memory with a person taking your power away? Yell at them. Reclaim that power. Break the cycle. Sudden burst of anger, fear or helplessness? It works."

Moriarty nods slowly, "I'll try that sometime."

"Actually…" He takes on a very demonic look, "Why don't we try a little _revenge_?"

"How?" Moriarty knows he shouldn't perk up at the suggestion, but after his trauma, it sounds like heaven. 

"Who hired you to do it?" 

Jim frowns — he'd avoided thinking about it, but the answer was painfully obvious: the only person who'd _want_ his mother dead, "My father." 

 


	27. Moriarty, The Next Day

Of course, it wasn't _exactly_ Jim's father that had ordered the hit — he didn't have that kind of money. However, he was a moderately clever man, not as much as his estranged son, but enough so that he'd found his runaway wife, and her new husband. 

But rather than reveal her publicly, he hatched a scheme. Collaborating with her new husband, who was rich, they planned her grizzly murder. There were even whispers about someone, or an organization (it was kept intentionally vague who/what was behind it all) that arranged these sorts of things. They could even pin it on one of her co-workers that she was allegedly having an affair with. It was sure to go without a hitch. 

The problem was, however, the name "Moriarty" hadn't come up. They dealt entirely with Gavin, mostly through electronic third-party means. And because of this oversight, James Moriarty senior was going to _suffer_. 

Finding him wasn't an issue — generally, when people hear a long-missing son is looking for his father, they're quite helpful. Within a day, they find he's moved back to Ireland, back to Jimmy's childhood home, _How fitting he should die there…_  

"Did you get what I requested?" He asks as Moran returns from reconnaissance.

"That I did." He hands Jim the tool of his father's destruction: a flask. 

"Excellent." He pours a white powder from a vial into it, "Now put it back." He replaces the cap, stretching out on the bed. 

Sebastian nods — they'd been hiding out at a hotel nearby for the past two days, plotting, but Moriarty hadn't slept at all. Moran knew the man kept odd sleeping hours, especially with this new stress on his mind, but he couldn't help think he just didn't want to expose any intimacy. _But why would he get a hotel room with only one bed if he were trying to avoid it?_

After the flask had been planted in the morning, Jim waits for nightfall, for when his father might stumble home from the local bar. It's a tantalizingly long wait, he even considers engaging in physical affections with Moran, but he knows his heart won't be in it. If anything, by how much he's doing for him, the retired colonel deserved a chance. 

"Why were you discharged?" Jim asks, staring at the ceiling, Sebastian half-watching some talk show on the wide-screen TV.

"You aren't supposed to ask that." Moran seems more ambivalent than reprimanding.

"I'm doing it anyway."

"The _official_ reason was excessive force. You could've looked that up."

"And I _did_. But they covered up the _real_ reason. _That_ strikes my fancy." 

Sebastian scratched out his hair, thinking, "Some punk recruit got too big for his britches… I put him in his place." 

"And subsequently died from sustained injuries?" 

Moran shrugs, "Had it coming."

"Why'd they hush it up?"

"Because I was important — would've made the military look bad if it got out that one of their high ranking was a bit of a psycho."

"Are you?" 

"Jim…" He chuckles, "I'm here helping you commit a murder. Do you really think either of us is entirely right in the head?" 

"Hmm…" Moriarty ponders, finally slowing down enough to lean against the wall, never having given his mental state much thought, "Ask me again sometime." 

 

* * *

 

Breaking into the house is easy — despite his paranoia, his father never locked up. It was different than Jim remembered, more disheveled, less of a comforting air. The house itself was small, two bedrooms, one office, living room of moderate size. But it was definitely feeling the effects of age and neglect: he paint was peeling in places, his room was completely boarded off; whether or not it had become structurally unstable, or if his father wanted nothing to do with it, he couldn't be sure. 

His father appeared to be sleeping on the couch for now, though he doesn't have time to inspect his parents' old bedroom before he hears the front door open.

James Moriarty Sr. lumbers in, heavily drunk from his evening out. Immediately as he enters, he feels something awry, and it isn't just the pounding in his ears from intoxication. He sees a figure, his vision blurring some, nowhere near soon enough to save himself, but it seems somehow… familiar, so he doesn't immediately make to attack, knife in his pocket itching to jump in hand. Before he can piece together a plan, a soft, almost-recognizable voice calls out to him.

"Mr. Moriarty." Jim recites, practicing his little showdown speech since he knew it was coming, detached from the anger he wants to unleash, "So good we should meet."

"Who are you and why are you in my house?" His words slur from the drink.

" _My_ name isn't important." He is conscious of his breathing, trying with almost his full headspace to keep it even, "I wanted to tell you in person that your job has been completed."

But he doesn't get off that easily, his father taking a moment to scrutinize his face, "James?" His gruff voice questions, "Is that you?"

" _Jim_." He hisses, "And I'm not here for a reunion."

"Then _why_? And what do you have to do with my _job_?"

"You killed my mother." He sighs, "I'm afraid you can't be allowed to continue."

"That right?" James replies, pulling out his concealed switchblade, "Just you try."

"Already won, I'm afraid." He uses his index finger to mime wiping his upper lip. 

His father mimics the gesture, hand pulling away, covered in blood, "What is _this_?!"

"Obscenely high dose of anthrax." It's as if he were talking about the weather, "Normal incubation can be as little as a day, but a big enough exposure can take less time…" He gives a dry laugh, "You'll find your flask has been tampered with."

The older man makes to check his coat pocket, but is hit with weakness, knees buckling and falling to the floor.

"Sorry, I didn't want to do it this way." Jim kneels, "I wanted to put my hands around your throat and crush your windpipe. Or stab you the way you ordered her execution. Some way that'd let me get some of the seething hatred out. But alas, too messy… it'd leave more evidence than I could reasonably cover up."

James begins to drown in his own blood, letting out a gurgle in response. "Charming." Moriarty scoffs, "But at least I get to watch." 

 

* * *

 

**Task complete. -M.**

 

**Coast is clear. -SM**

 

Sebastian had been waiting in a car outside the house, making sure there would be no witnesses to Jim's exit. 

Jim takes one last lingering look at his father's collapsed corpse, dark blood leaking from his mouth and nose, "To the void." He whispers, feeling absolutely no remorse, heart locked away from further harm. Walking out the door casually, he feels as if he's walking on air, light, without the heavy weight of the world resting on him any long. _Free_. 

Getting in the car, Moran grins, "Got what you needed?" 

"Almost." Jim smiles wickedly, pulling the soldier in the driver's seat into a fierce kiss. Confusion sets in for the colonel, but quickly gives way to _lust_ , having craved this moment since he laid eyes on Jim more than a year ago. 

For a few moments, the kiss is wonderful — feels like it did with Sherlock. Jim's gut ties into wonderful knots, pulse racing, hands exploring. He almost forgets they're still in front of the house. 

But then the intoxication of the murder began to wear off, it began to feel wrong again. Moran was working his coat off, which had initially felt _amazing_ , but was hurdling toward uncomfortable. His racing heart was now in _fear_ , not excitement. Pushing Seb away again, contempt for his own weakness bubbles to the surface. 

Moriarty struggles to catch his breath, trying to find _any_ reason not to say the next words. His search turns up empty, his mind still reeling, " _I'm_ … perhaps we should flee the scene of the crime before we — " _Stop hesitating. Really. He understands you enough. He just helped you rid the world of more trash. Who else will do that? Who else do you trust?_ "You understand?" It's almost pleading.

"Uh… yeah." Moran nods, still not entirely clear on the situation. Jim curls back into his seat as his accomplice starts the car. The drive back was eerily quiet. 

 

* * *

 

Back at the hotel, things are more comfortable. Moran doesn't make any advances, just lays on the bed, leaning against the headboard, TV still on. Some subversive documentary on modern art, not that it mattered — he's being patient for Jim, or at least trying to. But Moriarty is pacing, confused. 

"I don't — " Jim whines, looking at Sebastian, desperation flickering in his eyes, _There's pain I don't want to re-live_ , "I don't really do 'boyfriends…' or relationships of any kind, really." _Sherlock…_

"I… guess that's fair?" Moran says slowly, a bit disappointed, but he'd had his suspicions before. But if there's something else at work, then perhaps there was hope for the future, "Still?"

"… Yeah." Jim is reasonably sure he's talking about the flashbacks, but _Sherlock_ will always be a constant, "I can _cope_ , but not quite _better_."

"That's a shame." 

"I'm sorry." Moriarty sighs, falling over onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, "Can we just…" he asks, rolling to his side, curling against the larger man. Warm, muscled, Jim could feel safe like this, "Sleep? I'm tired…" 

"Of course." Alright, so they'd take things slowly. Not Moran's typical fare, but Jim Moriarty was by no means a "typical" man. An arm winds its way around the Irishman. 

They sleep well. Soundly. Jim doesn't fuss or have so much as a bad dream. 

The morning is silent as they sneak back into English borders.

 


	28. Jim/Professor Moriarty, Over the Next Six Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly MorMor in this chapter, with undertones of Sheriarty.

"So… anthrax." Sebastian says conversationally, tossing a gazette on Jim's coffee table, the smaller man zoned out on the sofa, "You've put all of Britain on high terror-alert. Well done." It'd been a few days since the murder, and the two perpetrators had been having quite a bit of fun watching panic rip through the streets. Well, _mutual_ fun was an assumption — Moran wasn't a mind-reader. 

"Mm." Moriarty hums. Other than the occasional chuckle or grunt, he'd been mostly laconic. Whatever shreds of his conscience remained were poking at him with tiny needles, still up-in-arms about his mother (he'd never regret _that bastard's_ death). Uncomfortable enough to keep him distracted, but nowhere near enough to have him confessing.

"Been meaning to do something similar myself for a while now." Sebastian tries again, sitting next to Jim, but not touching. 

"Yeah." The Irishman huffs, "Wasn't much of anything, really."

"Doesn't take much."

"Suppose not." 

Pause. "People are stupid."

"Yeah." 

At the constancy of short answers, Sebastian thinks about giving up trying to communicate altogether. Perhaps he should go home, but he's not sure if he trusts Jim alone — he hadn't really left the couch since they got back. Which wasn't the worst thing in the world; not healthy, but for his diminutive companion, was better than actively considering self-harm.

Moran slept in the guest room, or in the armchair across from Moriarty when he'd pass out on watch duty. Sometimes he wasn't even sure Jim knew he was there, but he didn't mind. Not what he was expecting, but the ex-solider found this kind of closeness almost familiar. Felt like being back in the barracks, sharing the pain and haunting guilt of murder. There weren't people in this room anymore, just ghosts. That reminded him, "What are you going to do about work?" 

At this, Jim perked up his ears, eyes finally locking on Moran, "Hm?" His first instinct was to think about his criminal exploits. What _about_ that? Despite gleefully poisoning Powers oh so many years ago, and filing down the break pads in that car, Jim had found he was quite averse to murder. Well, no, direct, bloody murder. His emotions seemed perfectly stable when it was a far-off idea —

"You still in there, Jim?"

"Huh?" He flounders, momentarily forgetting where he was, "Oh… right. Work?" 

"Yeah, you work for the _military_?" Sebastian points out, "By extension, the government. You know… those guys that get pissy when threats to national security are posed?" 

"What about them?" 

"Well… there's probably going to be a thorough internal investigation." He gestured between them, "They're probably going to check up on us at some point or another."

"And we'll be each other's alibi." Jim shrugs, "Tell them we were shagging or something."

"Of course." The colonel nods, "But I was thinking… if you're going to keep doing stuff like this, you're going to leave yourself vulnerable as long as those gits own your personal life as well as professional."

"So… what? I should quit?"

"Resign." He corrects, "And not immediately. After you've been cleared."

"That'll still seem suspicious." 

"Not if you've got a better offer lined up. And it's not like they're offering you special privileges or anything." 

"What's better than _government_?" Jim asks sarcastically, rolling his eyes, "Those in charge seem to think it's the best possible route."

"Say you've become now a contentious objector." Sebastian laughs, "A pacifist, or at least a pansy not ready for war."

Jim makes a face, scrunching up every muscle he can, "And _what_? I make up some story about my 'true calling' as a painter or carnie?"

"I should hope you'd pick something with a little more stability…"

"Hmm…" Moriarty finally, _finally_ gets a look in his eyes that suggests perhaps Sebastian isn't _entirely_ off his rocker, then drops his gaze, tilting his head to rest on Moran's shoulder, "I'll see what I can scrounge up."

 

* * *

 

As Sebastian predicted, the government gets up-in-arms about the anthrax "epidemic." Not that an isolated case was cause for _this_ much alarm, but the media had gotten wind of the plot. _Meddlesome force._ Jim thinks darkly as he gets his summons, _I imagine dear Mr. Holmes wouldn't be pulling in a lowly weapons engineer as a potential suspect if it weren't for the uproar…_  

Needless to say, Moriarty musters up a face that is proper parts horrified and reserved as he goes in for his "interview." It's nothing as sinister as what they'd do if he were a "real" criminal, of course, but the premise itself is alarming. Officially, he's brought into Mycroft Holmes' office for nothing more than a _chat_ , but oh, it's so much more than that.

It occurs to Jim that he'd misread the situation entirely — they _didn't_ just bring in the "harmless," scientific brains they keep on staff for things like this. No, no, Jim was _special_ because — 

"Jim." Mycroft Holmes' superior, clipped tone met Moriarty as he walked through the door. Posh office, decked out with finished, hardwood floors, mahogany desk. Heck, there was even a globe. Jim might've even noticed the wallpaper, if the walls weren't entirely covered by bookshelves. Volumes upon volumes of classics, early editions, if not firsts. "Mycroft." He responded after a moment of pretending (and slightly genuinely) to be awed, "You're looking well." 

Well enough, that is. The older man, leaning against the windowsill, had clearly been working out, but by the look of the dark circles under his eyes and bulging waistline, stress had driven him to insomnia and hyperphagia, "Do I? I haven't checked." He grumbled in reply, shaking his head slowly, "But let's not bother with pleasantries, shall we?" 

The Irishman swallowed — had that tone been accusatory? So hard to get a read on the elder Holmes. As much as Jim hated to admit it (and he'd _never_ let Sherlock in the know), the brothers shared a certain level of _je ne sais quoi_. He stood his ground, but kept his posture loose, "Of course. You're a busy man and all." 

"Are you quite finished with the flattery?"

"I've got more." Hollow banter at best, "If you were interested."

"I assure you I'm not." He huffs, "You know why you're here."

"Well…" Jim licks his lips in mock-consideration, "Generally when you and I have met, the subject has been… rather specific." 

Like a paintball fired directly into his face, shock explodes across Mycroft's visage. Completely off-guard, he must not've been thinking about Sherlock at all. Funny, it's all Jim can think about some days. Perhaps he has grown paranoid, but that doesn't mean he can't use this to his advantage, "Oh… I guess it wasn't." He says sheepishly, "My apologies…" 

"No, it's fine…" Cute, he's flustered, trying to reform his original train of thought, "I suppose I'd be remiss to say I asked you here in person purely on business." 

"I don't imagine all of your employees share such an interesting history with you."

" _We_ hardly share a 'history,' Jim." 

At this, Jim had to smirk, _Ah, yes, more like I played "hide from Sherlock's prick older brother" and you played, "pretend I don't know my brother has a boy in his bed." Classic._

"He's alright, you know." Mycroft murmurs, pulling Jim out of the stream of memories before they began. Probably for the best, bu it'd been fine when _Sherlock_ was an abstract concept, a memory, a relic of the past. But the older man spoke of the _now_. Even at that, the smallest hint of Sherlock's current existence, and Jim's stomach flips, "He's going to graduate university. Finally."

"I'm… glad to hear that." And Jim really is. Things were very well over, but he never wished _ill_ of him. Unlike that darling addict, who was occasionally quick to anger. 

"He misses you."

_What?_

"He doesn't say it. But he doesn't really _speak_ to me…" Mycroft sighs, the depth of his exhaustion heavy in the back of his throat, "But there are some things a brother just knows." 

"I…" Jim feels his voice crack, the vocal chords snap, the knot tangle in his heart. He doesn't run out of the office, only because his legs are numb. 

 

* * *

 

For a few months after the incident at Mycroft's office, Jim returns to possessing the sofa, almost as if he planned to join it through osmosis. Laying across it, face-up, eyes boring a hole through the ceiling, trying to picture what the sky looked like. Day and night were incidental, only really denoted by the light levels, and the varieties of food Sebastian would bring him. Oh, he was so wonderfully kind… why couldn't Jim fall for someone like that? 

That is, if he hadn't already done the _falling_. Hard to tell when you're so thoroughly self-involved. Maybe he'd wake up one day and realize what he'd been looking for he'd been staring at all alo- blah, blah, blah. 

He and Moran kiss every now and then, but Jim hardly notices. He still grooms himself meticulously, but it seems the only place his thoughts wander outside the confines of his skull. Work has even taken a huge backseat, cashing in all of his stored vacation days so he can wallow in his own pathetic-ness. He vaguely wonders if Sherlock felt the same way when he was in lock-up, though the indignity of it being _imprisonment rather than…_

Eventually Jim has a stroke of genius, "I'm going back to school." He announces to what he thought was an empty room.

"Hm?" Sebastian asks, looking up from his newspaper; he hadn't exactly _moved in_ , but Jim had never asked him to leave. He did make expeditions out into the world, stayed at his own place a few nights, went grocery shopping, things like that, but for the most part didn't trust Jim to be alone. 

"I have a Masters' degree…" Moriarty takes his company in stride, "I'm going to be a teacher." _Relaxed, sometimes unconventional hours. No one getting too nosy. In good standing with my alma mater._

"Alright…" Moran nods carefully, "How's that going to fit in with crime?"

Jim shrugs — he hadn't really been in the criminal scene since the murder, but he knew he wasn't ready or willing to give it up. Too lucrative, too much of a stepping stone to greater power, "I'll figure it out." 

 

* * *

 

Something keeps bothering Jim. 

It hadn't taken long after attending a few alumni functions for Cambridge to offer him a position — calling his equations, theorems and ideas "inspired, without contest" — which he immediately accepted. Turned in his resignation to the service stating "a new life-focus" as his reason for quitting. 

Wasn't long before Moriarty had found his footing in academia, confidently teaching the new generation of fools. He was able to return to the underworld of London without so much as a hiccup. Except one.

He doesn't kill. 

And this is a problem, or it would be very soon. In life, there were things he had to be willing to do. And that had to be _anything_. But whenever a job popped up, calling for murder, he just… couldn't. 

Not to mention, even if romance was a very, very small priority, Jim can't help but see that while every other part of his life is going well, his attempts to be "normal" with Sebastian don't seem to take. They still unofficially live together, but a kiss here and there is as far as it goes. Sometimes, if Jim is having a particularly fitful nightmare, he'll "sleepwalk" over to Moran's bed and be held until the next morning. Safe. 

But that comfort feels misplaced. Nothing Jim could put his finger on, but strongly, _strongly_ suspected it had something to do with a curly-haired genius he kept trying to forget about. Maybe "love" just wasn't going to happen for him anymore — he'd had it once, and that was more than most people ever got. Maybe… maybe it was time to just accept what was "affectionate" and "nice."  

It's later in the evening when Jim comes to this conclusion. Sitting up in bed, _Howl_ propped open between the fingers of his left hand. Seb was in the guest bedroom, a few walls away. He had just gotten out of the shower. Already in pajamas, no doubt. Alright, no more time for stalling.

Footsteps carried conviction as they hit the ground, thunking with each forward press on the wooden floors. The knock on the door was the exact contrast: coy, soft, unassuming. 

"Yeah?" Moran's deep, lovely tone answered.

Jim creaked open the door into the darkness — he could see the outline of Sebastian's figure, sitting straight up on the mattress, covers draped over his waist, "Jim." The ex-solider said his name almost like a question, "What's wrong?" 

The larger man most likely assumed Jim was here to sleep. Earlier than usual, not spurred on by a nightmare, but to sleep, and nothing more. Wrong. Jim was pushing himself, but as he climbed onto the bed, into Sebastian's lap, he knew it was the only way. "What — " The man under him begins, but is silenced by a rough kiss.

It takes a moment to get the timing right, coordinating their mouths to salvage the surprise attack into something salvageable. But it's not long before it's at least pleasurable. But something akin to claustrophobia sets in, the _fear_ , the overwhelming dissent… 

 _No, no, no!_ His mind is screaming, but his body is frozen, gripping to Sebastian's top, unable to let go, push away, cry —

Moran backs off almost immediately, realizing only moments too late. He straightens his posture, releasing Jim slightly into a loose embrace, "Jim? It's alright. It's alright, we don't have to do anything." He hadn't _asked_ for any of it, nor did he want to force it. But it was clear that at least one of them was. 

Jim is shivering, body at war with itself. It'd been _good_ , it'd been _workable_ , so why was he rejecting it? His mind was half-there, his body was mostly there. It didn't make sense… but he was so utterly conflicted by this sensory clusterfuck that he couldn't even speak. Thankfully, Sebastian still had his back covered. 

"Well…" He pressed their foreheads together, "If even after all this time, a _kiss_ is going set you off, I won't bother pursuing you." 

"Such a gentleman…" Jim mutters under his breath, relief flooding him, but unable to express it properly. Trying to clean-up that piss-poor response, he immediately adds, sincerely, "Thank you." 

They stay like that for a little while. Figuring he didn't have to waste the _whole_ build-up of trust, Moriarty pulls out his charm, "However, while we're on the subject, I _am_ in need of a man of your particular talents…"

"Oh yeah?" Sebastian raises an eyebrow, "Don't you dare say your valet or something… I was only squatting cause I was worried, not cause I liked it."

"No, no. You're far too valuable to do something so mind-numbing as trying to keep me alive." Jim waves a hand, "See… word on the underground is that you are a hell of a marksman. I've seen enough of your work to take this particularly rumor at face value."

"So you want me to shoot people?"

"Well, more than that…" Jim smirks, "You're too smart just to be a hired gun, as well." 

"So… partner in crime?"

"Essentially." He nods, pausing only a moment before continuing, "Though, I will need to ask you do the actual 'killing' part." 

"Lost your spit?" 

"I don't like getting my hands dirty." Jim corrects, wringing his fingers, though Sebastian isn't far off, "So distasteful."

Sebastian had to guffaw, "Christ, Jim…" He cups a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the laughter, "Only _you_ would describe killing a man as 'distasteful.' So _proper_ and _dignified._ "

"Shut up." Jim punches him lightly on the arm, resting his head against the large muscle, closing his eyes in contentment.  

Jim's first and only attempt at getting over Sherlock doesn't go well. However, he gains his first long-term employee, and second ever friend. _Victories come in strange configurations…_

Moriarty never has to kill anyone by his own hand again, but he's confident that he no longer cares —  _let it happen if it needs to… I will never be that weak again._ _I might even laugh._

People begin to look a lot more like Carl after that. _And anything that happens to them, they deserve._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this posted! I was going to do it much, much sooner, BUT while I was re-reading this before posting, I realized I didn't like it as it was. So I... pretty much re-wrote the entire thing x.x See, I knew it was really important, and a lot of Jim-things happen here, so I wanted to make sure I did it justice. And it needed more MorMor development, even if it's over -for now-, it needed a few key things established... ;D


	29. Sherlock + Jim/Professor Moriarty, age 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning!

The Holmes parents visit for Sherlock's graduation. They express the appropriate amount of honor that a high-class snobby older couple would for their failure of a son. _Especially compared to Mikey over there, paying for everything…_  

Lots of nodding. Lots of listening to his father's thinly veiled disappointment, "It's a shame you could do this earlier, Sherlock, you could've been through your Ph.D. by now…" 

"Oh, yes, a doctor in the family would be quite impressive. We could really intimidate people with _that_ kind of prestige…" Mother Holmes agrees.

The only joy Sherlock takes out of this is that his parents have somehow managed to shame him _and_ his brother for the first time in either of their lives. _Always the favorite. Always right. Always making me look_ worse _. For what? Pats on the head? Keeping "order," or whatever passes for it? The git just likes having control over everything in his life… including me._ Sherlock doesn't really _hate_ his brother so much as he _resents_ him. 

Maybe that's why he resents Jim as well. Sherlock knows he's right, and that "normal" is pathetic. But sometimes he _does_ envy other's ability to hide so flawlessly in plain sight. So well that the normals have no idea they've been duped, _Then again, they hardly see anything at all…_

The evening drags on so long that Sherlock considers faking food poisoning. _Or actually inducing it… I have some botulism on reserve…_

Finally, it's late, and their parents need to return to the hotel, as they have an early train to catch back to the estate in the morning. Sherlock gives them the required hug, and in perfect monotone says, "I love you both, goodnight. Safe travels."

It strikes him that he's never said the phrase "I love you" and actually meant it.  

After seeing their parents out, Mycroft stops Sherlock in the foyer before taking his leave, "Given any thought to my offer, Billy?"

" _Sherlock_." His younger brother rebukes, "And yes."

"Well?"

"I'm not doing anything else at the moment…" It almost kills him to say the words, but he can't deny he needs a job. Or purpose at all. 

"Then I'll see you Monday." Mycroft bows his head and heads for the door, but stops just as he slips into his coat, fidgeting with the outside pocket. 

"Oh, almost forgot." Whether he was faking for dramatic effect, or had actually nearly forgotten, Sherlock couldn't tell, "I was instructed to give this to you." Loftily, he holds out a crisp white envelope. 

Sherlock snatches it out of his hand, and his brother leaves without another word. He has absolutely no idea what's in the wrapper, but anyone who'd ask _Mycroft_ to deliver something to him wasn't the smartest. 

But upon closer inspection, he sees a sketch of a smallish crow emblazoned on the front. Looking closer, it's a very specific species, _The Thieving Magpie_ … if it were possible for a mind to gasp, Sherlock's would. Smiling the tiniest amount, he can no longer remember any animosity he felt toward Jim —  _I'm pretty sure I'd give_ anything _for this to be good news_. 

He speeds to his bedroom and locks the door behind him. It's a childish reflex, and he knows it's no longer forbidden to get letters from Jimmy anymore, but Mycroft's recent presence and the delivery of the letter make Sherlock feel like he's thirteen again. Hiding his missives with his only friend.

Carefully prying open the seal, he extricates a small white card. Another magpie, this one surrounded by leaves and vines. Unfurling the card, Sherlock is surprised to see so few words. But as is Jim's talent, succinct gets the message across: 

 

**I suppose congratulations are in order.**

 

**-M.**

 

Smirking, Sherlock is somewhat ashamed of how awfully he treated Jim the last time they spoke, but is equal parts tickled to know that he remembered what he said. He considers finally calling Jim like he requested, but it feels too simple. Not enough of a gesture. 

Thankfully, Jim must have accounted for that, and Sherlock guesses there's a hidden message. 

Scrutinizing the card, something isn't quite right — the vines on the side of the card look somehow warped. And then he sees it, eyes lighting up as they hadn't in close to three years. 

Concealed in the printed foliage is an address. 

 

* * *

 

In the cover of darkness, Sherlock examines the house. It's everything he had secretly wanted — not overly large, like his desolate estate, but big enough that he could reserve space for experiments. A garden for cultivating hybrids and samples. _Maybe even enough space to covertly set off in-progress explosives._

He smiles at the thought of Jim selecting this house with him in mind, then remembers the terms they left on. _Besides, I don't think I'd ever told him what kind of place I'd want after uni… then again, by the way I disdained my parents' house, it must not be hard to guess…_ Sherlock sighs, _But most likely, it was an accident, and I'm seeing what I want to see._

The universe is rarely so lazy, but obsession and wishful thinking are the progenitors of despair. 

Scanning the layout, he sees there are lights on in the foyer. However, knocking isn't exactly his style, so he searches for an open window, preferably attached to a darkened room.

It seemed as if Jim was expecting him, as Sherlock quickly finds one, conveniently low enough to the ground so it was reachable with only a short leap. Doing a pull-up into the sill, Sherlock lightly touches down into what he now saw was the kitchen. 

Hearing the intrusion from the living room, Jim puts down the book on astrophysics he'd been reading during his wait. Walking toward the dining room, he can't tell if he's excited or not, _How did I_ know _he would break in? I left the light on by the door and everything, but no, he has to break social customs because he's_ difficult _like that…_

Despite the flagrant disregard for manners, Jim isn't upset. If he'd had the capacity to be upset, he wouldn't have sent the card at all. 

"There's a _door_ , you know." He fights the urge to smile as Sherlock turns to face him.

"Yet you left that window gaping open. _Only_ that window." The intruder looks Jim over, _skinnier than when we last met, but he's still quite handsome,_ "It's as if you were expecting company." 

"'Expecting' would be a bit too strong a word… some derision of 'hope'would work better."

"It would be rude to decline an invitation from an old friend." The word "friend" is uncomfortable for Sherlock to say — he and Jim were so much more than that. 

"I didn't take you as one for etiquette… but then again, things might've changed in the past few years."

"As always, dear Jim, you are the exception to absolutely everything."

"That's _professor Moriarty_ now." Jim replies smugly.

"Fancy. What ever happened to weapons engineering?" 

"Military regulations got to be a _pain_. It was never something I was passionate about anyway…" Jim shrugs, neglecting to mention that staying with the military much longer would've resulted in more thorough investigations into his personal life. Which, at the moment, included feeding information he'd gleaned from top-secret meetings back to terrorist organizations, "Seemed Cambridge was eager to have me back, so when they offered the job, I terminated my contract."

"You never did _like_ restrictions. Plus, you were probably the most brilliant pupil there… well, besides _me_. Thankfully, I dropped out and spared you the indignity of merely being _second_ best."

They laugh. Whether or not Sherlock was smarter wasn't the issue — without a doubt, Jim's grades were better. But Jim liked it when Sherlock made cocky statements he knew weren't true, "Well, seems like you graduated all the same. Any plans for the immediate future?"

"Funny you should ask…" He bit his bottom lip, knowing how this next bit of information would go over, "I just took a job working with my brother."

Jim scoffed out of reflex, "Thought that was the _last_ thing you wanted out of life?"

Sherlock hangs his head briefly, "Second to last." 

It dawns on Jim what the absolute last was, giving him significant pause. "What are we doing, Sherlock?" _Why are we still playing games? You had the chance to get me back, you just had to be stubborn…_

"I was under the impression we were bantering to avoid speaking of the real issues, _professor_."

" _Jim_." He snipes. 

" _Jim_ ," Sherlock retorts, "What would you like to do?"

"The truth?" Jim asks, smashing down his instincts to pull away. 

"Always."

"I want my best friend back." 

"After all this?" Sherlock tries his best not to sound too hopeful. 

"Yes." Jim struggles to suppress the pain, the reflex to deny everything he wants, to keep his feelings protected, "Always."

"I'd like that, too…" He agrees, summoning up the courage to demand more, "But things can't be like they were before, Jim… you can't just _avoid_ talking about things and hope they go away." 

"Done." Jim says automatically, "And you're clean now… but it needs to _stay_ that way. One slip and I'm out. Got it?" 

"Done." Sherlock doubts it's that simple, but at the moment, he and Jim are in too close of proximity to have anything close to resembling rational thought. 

Neither resist the kiss they know is coming, though Sherlock stops them just short, "Wait." 

"What?" Jim asks, suddenly very worried his beloved is having second thoughts.

Sherlock takes both of his hands in his own, eyes boring into Jim's, "I love you." Sherlock whispers. "Now we're even." He wonders if it'll be the last, or if they'll continue to say it now that they've agreed to be more "open." 

Jim smiles wide, but doesn't reciprocate. Then crashes their lips together, both now experiencing a rapid onset of fever, skin practically melting off them. Not out of illness, but of long-subdued passion.

It's different this time, Jim seemingly trying to _devour_ Sherlock, shoving him against the wall, clothes shredded from his body. Sherlock throws his head back as Jim begins to work down his torso, sucking his neck, awash with self-indulgence. He moves to his nipples, to his stomach, to his waist, to his hips, then skips his groin and goes for the inner thigh. 

" _Jiiiiiim_ …" Sherlock whines, trying to pull his head back up.

"Be with you in a minute." He nips at the flesh, getting every taste of Sherlock he can, aching from how long he'd been denied the gratification. Swallowing his length, Jim deep throats him on the first try. 

" _Ah_!" Sherlock flails, "N-no… Jim… I want you… _in_ me…" Sherlock tugs at Jim's hair in desperation, already so close to the edge.

Jim pulls away from him with an obscene _pop_ , licking the tip oh so slightly, "After, I promise. Just enjoy this. Please." He goes back to work, vigorously sucking and bobbing. Sherlock considers he might explode — his systems were still on overload from the drug detox, coupled with no such contact since they'd last been together — it's over quickly. Jim continues to suck, savoring the saltily, musky taste, compelling little whimpers from an overstimulated Sherlock.

Resting against the wall, Sherlock brings Jim into an embrace to stop the torment, kissing his neck to fill the time. It only takes a few minutes, fingers beginning to work at Jim's blouse, the shorter man still absurdly over-dressed. 

But before he can return the favor, Jim guides him into the bedroom, bending him over the foot of the mattress. Things are happening so fast, Sherlock can't protest. Not that he'd protest to the _sex_ , just how it was being performed. 

Senses on hyperdrive, Jim's hand twisting in his hair as his face is pressed into the blankets, he hears a drawer open, presumably to get lubricant. His suspicions are confirmed as a slimy digit begins to sink into him. He shudders, having not been touched so intimately in _years_ , " _Jim_!" He yelps, a second and third finger added roughly. 

"Yes, love?"

"… nothing." He relaxes, the pain passing. 

"Excellent."

One hand furiously thrusting into Sherlock, Jim uses the other to unbuckle his belt, fishing his stiff cock out of his pants. Pushing into him, Jim feels a rush of power, dominating him like this, hardly focused on _who_ he's with and why, " _Fuck_." He winces at the tight heat.

Sherlock feels the detachment, but still enjoys it, trying to get around the burning pain that came with the little preparation he was given. He shifts against him, trying to drive him deeper still, Jim indulging in some of his more sadistic desires, deliberately missing his prostate. Moriarty presses his hands to Sherlock's hips, preventing him from getting more stimulation. Sherlock's mind blanks, accepting _Jim_ as his entire world, controlling his pleasure.

Eventually, Jim shows mercy, focusing on his partner's needs, driving directly into that cluster of nerves with abandon. Sherlock almost screams from the renewed sensations, body zeroed in on his impending orgasm. "I… almost…" Sherlock cries, but it's far too late for a warning, body spasming around him, member pulsing.

" _Yes._ " Jim hisses, the rhythmic clenching forcing him over the edge.

They take a few moments to recover, but not long enough to regain normal breathing patterns. Just as Sherlock begins to doze off, Jim whispers evilly, "Oh my dear, don't think you can escape so easily… You owe me for at _least_ four years." Sherlock was going to think of a witty retort, but it dies as Jim's tongue begins to tease at his sensitive entrance, shocking him back awake.

The sex is savage, less loving, but still pleasurable, _More like an addiction than actual desire…_ Sherlock thinks, wondering if this should concern him. But it must not, seeing as he gives in wholeheartedly. 

It's a few days before they get properly dressed.

In the brief periods of lucidity, they talk, maybe throw on a robe, and agree that Sherlock should move into Jim's house, but due to the nature of his new job, still maintain his separate apartment, _not having our names jointly on any sort of paperwork will protect my identity, and Jim's safety. That way, there is nothing official tying us together… generally, people aren't too happy when you torture them._

In spite of this, Sherlock rarely returns to his own place.

Domestic life with Jim was now… _interesting_. Very different. After a month or so, Sherlock realizes Jim has picked up some strange new habits. 

Occasionally, when he's talking, he'll put random emotion into a word, as if the very air he used to form it upset him. When he thinks Sherlock isn't around, he'll talk to people who aren't there. Sometimes he'll randomly tear his paintings off the wall, only to hang them again several hours later (though Sherlock never personally witnesses this, he just notices the changing of alignments of the portraits, the new nails, extra holes in the wall. _Perhaps,_ he thinks privately, _he can't stand to look inside himself all the time_.). He also seems to dry-clean his suits more than strictly necessary, as well as being vastly protective of them. 

Once or twice, Sherlock is sure he catches a whiff of gunshot residue. He finds a droplet of something red on the couch cushions. Jim assures him it was from a busted pen cartridge, but Sherlock only remains partially convinced. Especially when Jim has the cushion replaced the next day. Still, Sherlock lets it go, willing to wait until his boyfriend was ready to talk. 

Most importantly: Jim doesn't double over and cry anymore. There are moments he still stares into the void, but those are quickly dispersed, sometimes with Jim popping out in an inexplicable _extreme_ mood. _Either angry or maniacally happy, it's a toss-up._

Because of this, the sex can be far less personal; Sherlock had assumed that after some time they'd go back to their original style of quieted passion, but it only gets more aggressive. Every few days or so, Sherlock will find himself pushed against a counter, or a wall, and once he'd been hoisted onto the kitchen sink. 

None of this _bothers_ Sherlock, of course, they're just observations. He's glad to have Jim back, and although he thinks he should bring it up in the name of "honesty." He also doesn't want to push. 

Not since the last time. 

 


	30. Professor Moriarty/Moriarty; Sherlock, age 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim do not appear _together_ in this scene, hence the semicolon, rather than plus sign

A note is slipped on the professor's desk.

Twenty minutes before class, Moriarty arrives in his lecture hall, smiling when he sees the slip of paper:

 

**The Grimms Diamond exchange. Next week.**

 

Academia has become a useful front for his criminal business; people never questioned stray bits of chicken-scratch that appeared in his inbox. Plus, he could be involved in all sorts of events around and attributed it to him wanting to stay "cultured." 

Because of said "culture," he was vaguely aware of the grand exchange going on the next few weeks, ending with a gallery walk. But it couldn't get that far, because after they went on display, they'd be tagged with odd chemicals. _So I need into that vault._ _Let's see… could always break in the old fashioned way, but where's the fun in that?_

Moriarty pulls out his phone, quickly punching up a text:

 

**Officer that heads the G.D. security detail. -M.**

 

**Give me an hour. -SM**

 

 _Good enough_ , Moriarty hums, _I have class to attend to anyway._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock breezes through the academic side of his "interrogation" training. But, panting as he was jogging on only the seventh of his required ten kilometers that day, he was struggling not to _quit_ right there. Since he wasn't going to be a _spy_ , he would _generally_ be allowed to skip the physical side of training. 

However, Mycroft, head of everything, _insists_ on it, pushing the idea that _all_ employees should be held up to the same standard. _Except brother dear, of course,_ Sherlock thinks about Mycroft's bulging gut bitterly, _He's only doing this to haze me…_

But as the recently acquired MI6 agent finishes up his tenth lap, he's secretly grateful, _Probably for the best… spending almost a year in lock-up kind of robbed me of most of my strength…_

For the past three months, Sherlock did nothing but fulfill his strength and endurance curriculum. By the end of it, he still isn't in the _greatest_ shape, but he's getting there. He even volunteers to continue his physic training on his own time, provided he had any. 

It's odd, having a "normal" job. Arriving in the mornings, leaving in the afternoon (sometimes in the evening for a particularly difficult case). Despite everything he'd ever told himself, Sherlock enjoys it, especially when his brother deems him ready for "advanced interrogation techniques." 

"You mean I'm going to learn to torture people?" Sherlock asks almost incredulously — the Mycroft he remembered would _never_ have given him that kind of power.

"Don't use such language, brother mine." Mycroft says stiffly, "Makes the government look _evil_. You wouldn't want to tarnish our reputation for delegation and diplomacy now, would you?" 

"No, I would not, Mikey."

"Now, now, _Billy_ , be good or I won't show you the most expedient way to break fingers." Usually, Sherlock would jump down Mycroft's throat for using that childhood diminutive, but since he'd fired the first "Mikey," he took responsibility for starting it off. Besides, it was almost nice, having that sort of familiarity with someone at work.

Mycroft leads him to a locked room, made entirely of steel and concrete. _Soundproofed. Environmentally controlled. Nifty_. Sherlock beams, eyes crinkling in delight as they enter.

Within minutes, their captured informant is crying. Screaming, when he's not being gagged. Mycroft shows Sherlock the best ways to induce pain without leaving permanent damage. And even a few that leave lasting injury, since their prisoner wasn't being returned to the home government for few months.

"Billy, ease up on the strangulation, you're going to cut off all blood flow to his brain. We can't have him _that_ far impaired." Sherlock complies. 

Mycroft pulls out a scary-looking knife, "Alright, this is rather sharp, so watch carefully." He began to run the blade against their captive's skin, lengthwise, "The idea here is to skin him very lightly." Little dry shavings of skin began flaking off his arm, "Once you've gotten past the first two or three layers, it'll start to _sting_ … and that's when you grind salt on it. Or lemon juice, if you're feeling particularly sadistic." 

Sherlock memorizes every motion, every word, getting some perverse delight out of seeing his prim and proper brother being so _villainous_. 

It's unorthodox, but it's the most "bonding" the brothers have done in years. Sherlock doesn't mind. 

 

* * *

 

"Alright, have a great weekend everyone, and remember assignments one through six are due Tuesday." Professor Moriarty announces to his classroom; today, it held about twenty students, though his largest class was about fifty. 

The underlings file out, and as the professor clears the chalkboard, his attention is caught by someone clearing their throat. He turns around to see one of the girls that sat near the front standing next to his desk. 

"Lovely lecture today." She sounds weak, rehearsed, "I actually understood most of it." Nervous laughter. 

 _Lorna Dane, twenty-one, 5'10", blond, blue eyes, medical major taking math requirements,_ Jim just stands there, taking her in, not responding. He knows this bit all too well, _dilated pupils. Reddened cheeks, and it isn't just the sinful amount of make up she's worn today. Though she doesn't look_ bad _, I can't help but think this was intentional._

"I was wondering, if you had time after class, that we might — "

"Ah, sorry, miss Dane," he holds up a hand to cut her off, "I don't date students." The professor, along with Jim's experience from his undergraduate days, had developed a myriad of excuses and reasons _not_ to get involved with people. Of course, he could use the, "I'm taken" reason, but he found it was far less effective, _to say I'm taken would give them hope that I might do so if I ever were available… excluding her entire group of "students"_ _is far more clear-cut of a "never if you life depended on it."_

 _Though…_ he mused to himself as he dug through his bag for his mobile, _I suppose I could always go with "I'm gay…" but I don't know how my employers would feel about that… and it would sort of be a lie, anyway. No reason to get_ that _personal._

Checking his phone and groaning in disappointment, Jim is glad the room is empty for the next ten minute break. 

 

**Still isn't talking, boss. -SM**

 

**It's been an hour! I don't think you're trying hard enough. -M.**

 

**I've alternated cutting him, burning him, drowning him, even broke his toes for good measure. -SM**

 

 ****It was a bit comical: Moriarty was teaching as a man was tied to a chair in a warehouse, getting all manners of torture inflicted on him. Most of it very, _very_ painful. It made Jim a bit more animated during his explanations in the principles of physics — he was _enjoying_ the thought of something so delightfully awful happening to the police officer they'd nabbed, _The git has security codes I need to arrange the break-in next week…_

But on the surface, the professor was kind, mild-mannered, invested in humanity. He snorted, _What a joke._

But then the early-bird students began to trickle in, and Jim dashes out some quick orders:

 

**I have a class. Break a few fingers, do whatever, but try not to kill him. If he's still tight-lipped, tell him I'll nab his kid, though I would prefer not to actually do so. The threat should be enough. -M.**

 

**Sure thing, boss. -SM**

 

At the heart of it all, he feels so very _naughty._ And he loves it. 

 

* * *

 

"That was very good, Billy." Mycroft shows genuine praise once they've been debriefed on the mission. Together, they'd gotten the informant to squeal in less than an hour. 

"Thanks, Mikey." Sherlock rolls his eyes — he isn't sure if he cares, but he does feel a small jolt of pride at his brother's reverence. 

"How do you compartmentalize all of that, Mikey? Having this bloodthirsty monster lurking beneath your controlled exterior?"

"I'd hardly say there's a _monster_ , Billy." Mycroft sniffs, "Nor am I 'bloodthirsty.' You over-simplify." He shifted uncomfortably, tipping Sherlock off to the fact that he was at least _partially_ lying, "But the method of loci has been my go-to for at least the past decade."

"Of course you're wanting me to ask what that is." _Bloody show-off._

"It's a mental construct — it could look like anywhere. Be any place. But a concrete location. I place my memories, personality traits, useful information somewhere within it, and if I ever need it, I travel there."

"So, what? Like this building? Have you got a file on me?"

"Brother mine, I have a whole _room_ devoted to you." Mycroft rolls his eyes, "But no, mine looks closer to a small town." 

"Then mine shall be the greatest of cities." Sherlock announces defiantly. 

"It's of little consequence to me." His brother hums, "There's still some time left in the day, would you like to take a small assignment?"

"Depends, what is it?

"It's really nothing. One of Scotland Yard's detectives went missing whilst on a security-related case. They've got a suspect in custody, and he isn't talking." 

"Kidnapped police officers, _really_ Mycroft?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

"You never know. He might've gone rogue. Or maybe he's dead. You'll just have to find out. I thought it might be a good first solo mission."

Sherlock groans, but heads off to the station without another word.

This is when he meets Greg Lestrade, early forties, hair already gray from stress, moderately clever. At first glance he seems like a regular DI, but little does Sherlock know, he will drastically alter the course of his future. 

 

 


	31. Sherlock + Moriarty, age 28

"Possible homicide. Body found in an alley in Kensington. Male. Mid twenties. Autopsy basically confirmed cause of death was heroin overdose. However, medical examiner has compelling evidence it's a suicide." Lestrade explains, taking Sherlock through the storyboard of photos presented before them, "What do you make of it?" 

Sherlock's keen eyes zeroed in on every detail. Including those that were missing, "Are these _all_ the crime scene photos?"

"Yeah, taken by finest forensics team." An overly zealous technician named Anderson butts in. He's only known him five seconds, and already Sherlock finds him annoying. 

"Funny, seeing as they conveniently neglected to focus on the fact that the man's skin shows signs of _intentional_ poisoning…" Sherlock waves his hand over the discoloration, "Is his briefcase in the evidence locker?"

"Yes, but — " Anderson begins, but the detective just pushes past him. That's when Anderson begins to hate him. 

After tearing through the case, Sherlock can't find the source of the offending toxin, meaning, "I'm going to have to insist this is a _murder_ , Grahm."  

"What? What proof do you — " The detective inspector is flustered, not sure where this _leap_ had come from, not even bothering to correct him on his name, but if it was any indication that the younger Holmes was like his genius brother… well, he was worth listening to. 

"No time to _explain_!" Sherlock shakes his head, "The _corpse_ , where is it?"

"Er, why?"

"I want to take a crack at it."

"I don't know if I can — "

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Sherlock, you can't just — "

"I'm going to do it anyway, but you could be helpful so I don't tear the building apart looking for it." 

The detective inspector runs a hand through his thick hair in frustration, weighing his options. After a moment of deliberation, decides he'd rather get in trouble with his boss than Sherlock's powerful family, "You know Bart's?" 

"Of course." 

The older man sighs, "Morgue. Attendant there is real sweet. Ask for Ms. Hooper."

"Thanks." Sherlock was already halfway out the door, and had _no_ intention of asking for anyone whatsoever. 

 

* * *

 

"Um, who are you?" A timid young brunette asks, "I… I don't think you're supposed to be in here." She's slight, with long, mousy hair, wearing a lab coat that read, "Hooper." Sherlock assumes that she's the one he should've asked for, and realizes he was right not to: clearly, she was too shy to confront a man clearly breaking the law, and thus had no place in his air space. 

"Sherlock Holmes." He snipes, not bothering to look up as he scrutinizes the discolored skin that hadn't yet been on the chopping block, "I'm a consultant, working with DI Lestrade. He told me my biggest lead would be in one of these drawers." He nods at the wall of body storage containers. 

"Molly. Molly Hooper." She extends her shaking arm, "It's nice to meet you." 

Sherlock just stares, her hand an olive branch he wanted no part in, "I was already fully aware of who you are." 

"Just being polite." She gives a nervous smile, pulling her ignored outstretched hand to brush back her hair. She blushed a bit, a look on her face he'd only ever really seen people give Jim. 

It's then that the detective realizes he has a powerful advantage. The first time he's ever had such a tool at his disposal: Molly _fancies_ him. _How droll… just met and my first impression is of tactless and unapologetic criminal activity that she's liable for… and she thinks I'm_ pretty _._

Immediately, Sherlock changes his demeanor, "Oh, sorry, terribly rude of me!" He manages a warm smile, taking her hand back and shaking it vigorously, "It's just that I'm a bit perplexed at this case… do you think you could help me?" He can't deny that on some level he feels vaguely flattered, _Finally, Jim's not the only one being chased in this partnership…_

Molly blinks rapidly, his sudden shift enough to give her whiplash, "I- I… well… see…" Her cheeks grow pink as she fumbles around in her brain for words. _I can tell it's unusual for her to be so off-balance, she's actually quite brilliant under all this… affection._ Sherlock mentally wrinkles his nose — for whatever irrational reason, she could've been the smartest girl in the world, and still his distaste at her immediate attraction makes her unforgivably dull. 

"Sorry!" He chimes, trying to get her out with some dignity, "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. Oh well." He forces a regretful sigh, "Some other time, perhaps?"

"Right… well…" She looks disappointed, but recognizes her ineffectiveness whilst being unable to breathe properly, "L-lock up when you're done."

Sherlock grins her out the door, dropping it the instant she exits, _Pathetic._

 

* * *

 

To his chagrin, when Sherlock returns the next day to continue his ministrations, Molly has left him her number. 

 

**Call me!**

 

**-Molly xx**

 

_Oh Christ. What have I done?_

 

* * *

 

Returning home from a long day, Sherlock throws his coat on the ground, knowing how it _mildly_ irked Jim, _but only in the best of ways_. "Jim?"

"Bedroom." He answers with a somber tone.

 _Really? It's only…_ Sherlock checks his phone, _Oh. Drat. Midnight. Didn't even check the time while I was out… guess I'm finally_ enjoying _my work._

Making his way to their room, Sherlock casually strips down to his underwear, leaving a trail of clothes behind him. Upon crossing the doorway, Jim groans, "Aw, Sherlock, take all the fun out of it for _me_!" He pouts, "If you're going to create a mess in your wake, you might as well let me _watch_." But he quickly drops the fat lip and grins, patting the empty space next to him.

Sherlock wastes no time in joining him, throwing himself into a string of furious kissing. While this wasn't Jim's original intent, he can't help but get lost. It's vigorous, but still somehow gentle — as if the kiss isn't the point, so much as communicating _feelings_. It's so cloy he'd be sick if he weren't deeply touched. Unable remember when they kissed so sweetly (it must've been years), he knows he misses it, but both conscious and unconsciously worries about getting hurt again. Or losing his precious control as only Sherlock can do. 

"Sherlock- ah! Slow down!" He sputters, breaking out of the spell. 

"I've been gone all day!" Sherlock cries, diverting his attentions to Jim's neck, "Barely seen you almost all _week_." 

"Well, _yes_ , that's my hang-up, so if you'll _pause_ for a moment…" He nudges Sherlock off.

"Ugh, _what_?"

"Tell me about your day?" Jim smiles, albeit deceitfully: he knows _full well_ where Sherlock's been, and he's all-too aware how uncomfortably close he's getting into one of _Moriarty's_ cases, "I specifically asked Mikey not to keep you out so long…" 

" _Oh_ …" Sherlock muses in displeasure, still not happy about Jim and his brother's new alliance. Surprised he'd neglected to tell Jim about his new position, Sherlock is unsure of how to broach the subject, supposing too late that this was one of _those_ decisions he should've talked over with his spouse, "I'm considering joining the Yard."

"Don't you already work intelligence gathering?" Jim feigns ignorance, playing up the idea that he was only aware of his "mild" involvement with MI6. 

"Well, _this_ would be more of a _hobby_ than a _job_ …" Sherlock tries to find the words to describe what he'd be doing other than "looking at crime scenes and offering his not so humble opinions."

"Can you _do_ that? I thought police needed special schooling or something."

"Well… not _exactly_." 

"Then how, _exactly_?"

"I'm going to be a _detective_ , but… I can't officially join since I haven't been through any of the training."

"So… you're going to be a private eye?"

"Not _exactly_ …" Sherlock sighs, but Jim shoots him a _you-had-better-be-more-specific_ look, "Mostly? I guess they'll just be asking for my advice."

"So you'd be a… consultant? Sort of a detective, without the proper schooling?" 

"Huh." Sherlock huffs, "Consulting detective, maybe?"

"Has a ring to it!" Jim chirps, "What will you be working on?"

"Funny you should mention that!" Sherlock jerks up, "They've assigned me to something dull."

"Why is that funny?"

"Oh, well I'm ignoring _that_ the assignment, obviously."

"Intriguing — private interest, then?"

"Nothing concrete yet, _but_ …" Sherlock sighs, regretting that he left the case file in his coat, "I believe these previous deaths declared 'accidents' are actually the work of a serial killer."

"What makes you say that?" Jim leans in, head resting on Sherlock's lapel.

"The police report says they were accidental — perhaps _intentional_ — overdoses or self-administered poisons, but — "

"We call those _suicides_ , dear." It wasn't about _discouraging_ him; no, no, it was about forcing Sherlock to think critically. 

"I know! But… there wasn't any trace of the substances used in the 'suicides' on the victims. The drug overdoses weren't known addicts, the botox injections too lethal, and the cyanide capsules weren't _stored_ anywhere…"

"Hmm." Jim pretends to consider, "Might have potential."

"Preliminary title is 'The Natural Disaster.'" Sherlock grins, thinking he's so clever to have come up with the name. 

"That's _original_."

"Well I don't think there's an _official_ nickname until I can prove they're linked." 

Jim takes a moment to act as if he were giving the idea more thought; he'd spent all of yesterday trying to decide how far he'd let Sherlock's new _obsession_ go. _Well… I want him to be happy with his little puzzles… but I don't want to be caught. And while most of the imbeciles at the Yard are content to go along with my bait, Sherlock will know better… I know he'll find out if I let this get out of hand… but the question is how long can I let him run rampant?_ He eventually decided he would be more careful, but wouldn't do much else. _Curiously… I'd like to see how quickly he'll find me out. How he'll react. How denial might play in… Fascinating._

_I get to observe Sherlock Holmes. I get to watch his process like he did so long ago… how he found me out. I could learn so much about my own patterns… besides. I bet he's so beautiful to watch dance. Play my games, love. Learn me, the way I'll learn you. I can't wait to see who wins._

_Even if I'm confident it'll be me._ The thought gave him pause, _Odd… I'm not_ certain. _Exhilarating._

"I think you should do it." Jim smiles, "Makes a lot of sense for you." 

"Thank you." Sherlock smiles, feeling something strange, _Is this pride? Gratitude? It's kind of what I've always felt with Jim, but…_ something in his facial expression must've tipped Jim off to his confusion, because the shorter man replies, "That's the pleasure of having the person whose opinion you care about be supportive of you." 

"Oh." Sherlock exhales, "Interesting." 

"Very." Jim kisses him and turns over, "Goodnight, dear. Turn the light off when you're done." 

"Goodnight, Jim." Sherlock goes to retrieve the case file. Returning to bed, he spends a few minutes with the information, but after Jim's breathing steadied, Sherlock felt the irresistible urge to cuddle up to him. 

He gets up and sets the file down in the study, not wanting to jostle it in his sleep. 

Back in bed, he curls an arm around Jim's bare waist, "I love you." 

Unbeknownst to him, Jim is still awake, _I love you too, my sweet._

 

* * *

 

After about an hour, Jim rolls over, "Sherlock?" He whispers. 

No response.

He gently nudges him, "Sherlock, are you awake?"

Still no response. 

Carefully, Jim extricates himself from Sherlock and the blankets. Coaxing open the bedroom door, he inquires again, softly, "Still asleep?" Silence. _Good_.

Wandering over to the study, Jim digs into the file. _Nice to see the Yard is still clueless as ever…_ he smirks, _But Sherlock seems to be making unnecessary leaps and bounds…_

Sure enough, his fledgling detective had already begun to make the vital connections between his seemingly unlinked crimes. _I would've thought the Devon murders would've thrown him off…_ But he can't feel much other than _pride_. _Odd… I should be threatened… but I feel…_ invigorated _… by the idea that someone could defeat me… render me powerless with nothing more than a battle of wits… Oh Sherlock, what are you doing to me?_

He sighs, _I'm going to have to keep an eye on that. New fascination or not, I have a business to run._

 


	32. Sherlock + Jim/Moriarty, age 29

"It doesn't make any sense." Sherlock whines, huffing down a cigarette (well, his _third_ cigarette that day) in his bathrobe, pouring over the latest case. 

"What doesn't?" Jim asks lazily, head in Sherlock's lap under the file, busying himself with reviewing a student graduate thesis.

"The Natural Disaster." The detective hisses.

"How _is_ our hurricane conspiracy going?"

"Terrible."

"Why?"

"There was a pattern before!" Sherlock throws the folder across the room, "He's broken it!"

"Are you sure it's the same guy?" Jim pulls the paper a little too close to his face, hiding his growing glee at the detective's frustration.

"It has to be! Everything is the _same_ , except now it _looks_ like murder, rather than being covered up by the suicide ruse." He grumbles, "It's like he _knows_ what I'm thinking!"

"Sounds a bit paranoid, my love." Jim hums, running his lips across Sherlock's jawline. 

Sherlock shudders, suddenly forgetting about his dilemma, "What's _this_ about?" He wasn't used to Jim randomly being so affectionate. 

"Maybe take a break from the case?" Moriarty's mask of sincerity is perfect, "You've been on this more than a year now, maybe take some time away from it? It could give you a fresh perspective." 

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but seeing Jim's concern, he capitulates, "… You're right."

Pleased with himself, Jim sets about distracting his beloved. 

 

* * *

 

"I'm leaving for Switzerland tomorrow." Sherlock announces when he settles into bed, Jim still brushing his teeth in the next room. 

"That's new." Jim's voice is garbled from the toothbrush, "Why?"

"Rich client. Summoned for me today, cabin near the Reichenbach Falls."

Jim finally walks in, playfully tackling Sherlock, "What's the job?"

"He said he'd tell me when I got there. Highly confidential. I figured if nothing else, it's a free trip to Switzerland." 

"Mmm. Sounds exciting." They kiss lovingly, Jim and Sherlock both savoring the burst of hormones, reinforcing Jim's confidence in his plan to lure the detective away.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." Jim pecks him on the forehead, "I'm glad your career is kicking off." 

Weaving an arm around his chest as Jim rolls over, Sherlock can't quell this nagging feeling that despite being more open, Jim is still somehow so far away. 

Somehow… there was more to hide. A terrible idea begins to form, but Sherlock refuses to give it credence, frozen in the budding stages. 

 

* * *

 

The Reichenbach case goes well. More than well, actually, as it garners Sherlock quite a bit of attention from the public. Suddenly, he's got tons of clients lined up, even some that he considered to be "interesting." But he still favors work with the police, even if it was largely unpaid. He divides his time between his previous cases and MI6, somehow striking a fine balance between all of it and his relationship (even if his love life had taken a bit of a back seat, Jim understood). 

Flush with success, even _Mycroft_ seems to warm up to him more, as if Sherlock were finally worthy of the Holmes name.

Not that Sherlock cared about any of that. No, his _real_ interests in life could still be counted on one hand, and the only name that meant anything to him was Jim's. _Though, I don't know if either of us want each other's last names… the families associated with them are both awful… maybe if it ever came to it, we'd both get new surnames…_

Practically speaking, he and Jim couldn't get married in England, but there were other countries Sherlock saw the possibility in. But he and Jim had never discussed it, not really. Their lives had _always_ been entwined, marriage would just be a formality. Though, he wanted a small wedding, but suspected Jim would be more inclined towards extravagance — _no, what am I thinking?_ The detective shakes his head, _I guess that's something I should discuss with Jim… if he even wants to_. _But I don't see why he wouldn't, I mean… well, I'll bring it up soon._

Sherlock determines to wait on that conversation. Especially since he just had a revelation on the case he'd put down, _The Natural Disaster is someone very close to me…_ the terrible idea returns, black storm clouds on the horizon of his mind, but he takes a breath, determined to see it through.

Certain that such a corrosive line of thought would only lead to pain, Sherlock can't help but tread carefully for the truth, _once I think it, I can never stop. You can't stop an idea_. _No, it can't be_ him _. There would be more proof. More likely, it would be Mycroft… more power, more resources…_ But he doesn't really believe that. 

However, even though his process was to accuse first and find evidence as he went along, he couldn't risk doing that this time. Internal political struggles were dangerous territory. If he was wrong, he'd be jeopardizing his only meaningful relationships for nothing. 

It's the first time Sherlock hesitates on a case. He'll continue to do it whenever it comes to Jim, or worse, _Moriarty_.

Then he gets a brilliant impulse: _fingerprint databases. I work for the police now. Maybe whoever it is, isn't reading my_ mind, _so much as my case files._ Sherlock wrote very detailed notes that he hadn't shared with anyone else, not even Lestrade, in it. 

In dusting, he's thrilled to find one other set of prints. Curiously, they've been altered, _looks like someone has been sanding them down, but they've come back the mildest bit…_

But the database search turns up no matches, _Either they have no criminal record, or the partials aren't enough…_

There was another way to prove there was nothing to worry about, but Sherlock was dreading the answer. On his way out, he intentionally bumps into Anderson, sending the git tripping against the wall, "Hey! Watch it, _freak!_ " 

Sherlock grimaces at the name, but happily feels the new weight in his pocket, as the recently acquired contents would prove useful. 

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet evening, Jim was flipping through the channels on the TV, Sherlock had busied himself with a new, completely unrelated case file, _Just in case I'm right, which I'm not, it'll be best to let him think I'm off his trail…_

At around midnight, Jim gave an exaggerated yawn, "I'm going to bed my sweet." He set the controller on the arm of the sofa, taking his time to stretch as he got up. 

"I think I'm going to stay up a bit longer." Sherlock grins, "I think I'm on to something with the Morelli case." 

"Giving up on The _Earthquake_?" Jim asks, trying not to sound pleased.

"For now." Sherlock is lying, but he finds Jim's subtle relaxation of body language very interesting, "Wasn't making much progress." 

"That's too bad." Jim presses a light kiss on his lips, "Goodnight, my love." 

Sherlock pretended to comb through the thin file for another hour — the answer had been sinfully transparent within ten minutes of perusal, but he needed a case that seemed realistically difficult enough to distract him from the main focus. 

Once he was fairly sure Jim wasn't returning, Sherlock sets to work on the remote, pulling out the dusting kit he'd nicked from Anderson. He had every intent on taking the copied mark on the film back to the Yard for comparison.

Well, he _had_ that intent. But holding the translucent strip up to the light, Sherlock's stomach falls so hard he's convinced his internal organs had somehow ripped their way out of his stomach: Jim's fingerprints had been sanded down. 


	33. Sherlock + Moriarty, A Month Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death :(

"I know it was you." The accusation strikes the stillness in the air, a peace forever disturbed, " _Is_ you." It was stupid. He'd waited an _entire month_ , despite all the evidence he'd gathered. _Indisputable… and yet I stayed in denial._

Sherlock feels so much of their life is on a constant, repeating loop that he is powerless to break. But each time they come around it gets worse. The first time he asked this question he gained a best friend. Now he's sure to lose him forever.

He and Jim are in the kitchen. Jim had been putting the dishes away. _Honestly_ , Sherlock thinks, blinking back tears, _It could be any other day._

"What is?" Moriarty asks, a bit too innocently; he's been _waiting_ for this moment, genuinely curious as to how Sherlock would react.

"Don't give me that, _Moriarty_." He narrows his eyes, thoughts conflicted, _I could walk away now. I could let him pretend. I could let Lestrade and the Yard keep chasing red herrings. Let them believe those murders were accidental. Pin the suspicious ones on someone else… I could do so many things… Things could stay the same._ But the feelings of _betrayal_ burn too brightly to be set aside. 

"Is there a reason you're using my surname?" If it were anyone else, Moriarty would start out by gloating. But… because it's _Sherlock_ , he wants to drag it out, let _him_ gloat.

"That's what your _fans_ call you."

"You mean my students?" Jim begins to stride around the room, gliding his fingers along the walls, the appliances, stopping at the handles to the refrigerator.

"Your _fans_." Sherlock asserts, fiddling with a glass Jim hadn't put up, "The people you _hire_ to commit your murders. The people that hire _you_ to plan them all. Not just murders, but grand robberies, drug smuggling, espionage. Any sort of _crime_ , really."

"What does that make me, exactly?" Jim knows his moment is soon, nearly bursting at the seams with pride, but for Sherlock, he is patient.

"… a specialist." Sherlock feels as if he may vomit, "Like me… but… a consulting _criminal_."

"No getting around it, then." Jim smirks, snickering to himself as he gives a dramatic slow clap, "How did you find out?"

Sherlock blanches, "You just told me."

"Clever, clever." Jim praises, "You didn't have any real proof, just a hunch. So you needed a confession."

"I _know_ you." Sherlock says, the first time he finds himself regretting that sentiment, "If I seemed confident… you wouldn't keep lying."

"Because I like _deception_ … but I like the look you get when you've figured something out even more." 

"People are so easily ruled by their hearts…" Sherlock's eyes begin to water, tensing his face as he tries to contain them, "The problem is, I've spent my whole life giving mine to a serial killer."

" _I_ haven't killed _anyone_ in sixteen years." Jim winks, _well, unless you count the_ one _time… or the next…_ he oscillates his head roughly, _no, no. I know I promised to let it out, but not now. Have to stay calm, it's important,_ "Which, last I checked, as have you."

The glass collided with the wall, shards exploding outward as Sherlock cracks from rage, "Why didn't you just _tell_ me?" Despite the wrath festering inside him, the words are calculated. Calm. Precise. The way Mycroft taught him to speak. 

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock. Or did you forget that you've been _actively_ trying to get to me? To turn me in?"

"If I'd have known it was _you_ — "

"You'd have let me _go_?" Jim feigns shock, clapping a hand over his heart.

"Of _course_!" Sherlock shouts, "It's _you_. I could never… not when…"

"But your colleagues have _none_ of those reservations, and when _they_ figured it out…" Jim slices a finger suggestively over his jugular. 

"I imagine I'd be in a lot of trouble." Sherlock hugs himself, " _If_ I had planned to stick around." 

"What, would you have _joined_ me, then?" Moriarty sneers — it's too good to be true, so he doesn't' believe, "Helped plan murders? Get paid exorbitant amounts for the pleasure of watching the world decay from the inside?" 

Sherlock didn't respond, but as always, silence was the most communicative statement in their world. 

"Oh-ho! You _would've_!" Moriarty taunts, still uncertain, but beginning sway. Perhaps this was still salvageable, and potentially better than ever, "Not quite the do-gooder your brother thinks you are, are you?" 

"It's a _job_ , not an alignment."

"People are so easily ruled by their hearts." Jim parrots.  

"Apparently."

Without warning, both men begin to laugh. It feels like it did almost twenty years ago — strained, but reassuring. 

"How _did_ you find me?" Moriarty asks, stepping forward, stroking Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock is amazed he's let the criminal get so close to him, but his body can't help but trust _Jimmy_ , no matter what he's done, "I knew the killer had to be watching me very carefully, based on how he was able to predict my every move. And to thwart _me_ , he had to be very clever. As clever as me…" his voice cracks, "But ruthless and calculating. Meaning if he really wanted me off his scent… he'd have threatened the only thing I cared about — it's not hard to figure out my pressure point. Because I would've caved, I really would've, just to keep _you_ safe. Except that threat never came… it was then I began to suspect the person behind it had some special interest in me… rather than hurt me, they cared enough to change their tactics to ruin my theories. And there's only one person like that.

"But I tried to lie to myself… that it couldn't be _you_. _You_ wouldn't keep something like this from me. So I reasoned that the mastermind must've been reading _my_ case file. The one with notes I don't always share with the police. And he _was_ , but the fingerprints I'd gotten were intentionally warped. Then I saw yours were too, and it wasn't that hard to melt my buffers of denial after that." 

Before he could tell himself it was a dumb idea, Jim springs onto his toes, planting a chaste peck on Sherlock's lips, because _really_ , it was brilliant, and he found that unspeakably sexy. 

The detective doesn't fight it, going so far as to swathe his arms around the small of Jim's back.

When Moriarty continues the kiss, Sherlock feels strange — he was _right_. He'd _always_ been right when it came to all matters Jim, even if he took detours to getting there. His face begins to flush, staring into the vast chemical rewards that were both being proven to be so clever, and Jim's persisting tongue.

He feels _high_ , but like he's been given uppers, rather than opiates. He feels _strong_ , like he's regained a missing piece of him. In a nearly delirious fervor, Sherlock picks Jim up and slams him against the wall, feet a centimeter off the ground, held up only by Sherlock's support. Unlike previous encounters, Jim does not try to fight back, or usurp control. Instead he gives a devilish moan. _Christ…_ Sherlock feels drunk.

It was the first time Jim had been _submissive_ to him in years, and he takes it in stride, using a free hand to pull up the entrapped man's legs, now hooked around Sherlock's hips. However, his body quickly screams from the stress, so he moves slightly to the right, bringing Jim to sit on the counter. It's when Sherlock begins to undo the shorter man's belt that he begins to protest. 

"Mmm… Sherlock… wait…" Jim purrs between kisses. He still wants to go through with it, suddenly remembering how good it felt to be _taken_ , rather than dominating. But a hang-up has formed, worrying that Sherlock wasn't thinking properly. 

"Shh." 

"But Sherlock — " 

"Don't spoil it."

"Sherlock, _listen_." _Please. I couldn't_ stand _it if this was some cheap lay._

Begrudgingly, Sherlock abates, pulling back slightly, taking his conquest in. He'd been ready to growl with pride, but something about Jim's eyes portrays _fear_. _Too much?_ Sherlock thinks, ardor suddenly culled. 

"Don't go soft on me now, honey." Moriarty smirks, hiding his inner turmoil, "Believe me, this is doing _wonders_ for my libido, but I want to get on the same page before we doing something we might _regret_."

Sherlock bites his lip, _why did you have to ruin it?_ As long as the detective hadn't allowed himself to consider the situation, he could've gone on. However, this was no longer an option, as Moriarty has forced them to come crashing into their deeper confrontation. 

"Is there something that needs to be said?"

"What happens after this, Sherlock?" He frowns, "Do your advances mean you've forgiven me?" 

"Perhaps." Sherlock groans into his neck, "But do we have to discuss this _now_? I promise there's nothing I'll regret."

"It's not about _you_." Jim's body threatens to get choked up, a chasm forming in his chest, ready to expel the reservoir of sobs he knows is coming.  

If it had been anyone else, Moriarty could've agreed. Sex, on its own, meant very little besides a quick bout of fun. Moriarty knew this, despite never having slept with anyone _but_ the beautiful man standing before him. But the problem was that it _is_ Sherlock, the one man with whom sex was more than a physical activity. _If I let you in…_ He's tapping into the more "Jimmy" parts of him, the possibility of heartbreak too likely to ignore, _To connect with you right now… I need to know you're not just going to run away. I couldn't take that pain._

"This doesn't have to change things between us." Jimmy ponders, "We could still run away."

"Jim…" Sherlock, despite himself and the tough front he'd been trying to play, sheds two tears. Everything Jimmy is feeling, Sherlock feels too, apprehension practically radiating off of them both. His earlier testosterone boost allowed him to deny that part of his conscience, but as he reflects, he knows Jim is worth much more than being reduced an animalistic means to an end, "I want to be perfectly clear: I don't _care_ about the murders. Or the felonies, or _any_ of that."

"But you still have a problem." 

"You _lied_ to me. For _years_. About who you are. _After_ we got back together with the mandate for _honesty_." Sherlock sniffs, holding back more tears, "You broke the agreement."

"It's just a _job_." He begs, thumbing the droplets off Sherlock's face, "That's not who I am. You _know_ who I am."

"I _don't_."

"Yes, Sherlock… you're the only one that ever has." It's frightening how true it is, how, in theory, he'd do most anything to keep Sherlock by his side, never wanting to lose the one person who has ever understood him. But, that's theory. The shorter man, no matter how he feels, is too damaged to follow his heart, instincts to avoid getting hurt often ruling him more than he'd like. 

"I…" The detective shakes his head, "I've come the _closest_. But coming from you, that's still about 70% shrouded intentions." 

"Right." Moriarty's face blanks, taking a big breath as he pushes Sherlock so he can hop off the counter, "Off you pop, then." So easily do his feelings recede, but he can't help it. Fumbling to get his belt back in order, he can't help but notice his hands are quivering, _Body is betraying me…_

Taking a step back, Sherlock considers a thousand different scenarios, _We could run away. I could work for him._ Another step back. _I could let the charade continue. We could stay here_. He turns away. _I don't need to lie to myself, I could know what Jim does, and just not touch the cases involving him_ … Hand curled over the doorknob, he pauses, _He could stop lying to me. One day. But… I can't be so optimistic._

"When we meet again… we'll be enemies." Sherlock says with the slightest bit of remorse — he wants Jim to say something, _anything_ to keep him from leaving. He doesn't want this, but he feels as if he has no choice.

Moriarty, meanwhile, _knows_ he has a choice, but is more exhilarated by the idea of having a worthy foe than a dashing accomplice, "I look forward to it." _Can you defeat me, Sherlock? How far are you willing to sink before you can't go on without me? Or are you stronger than that? Am I?_ To him, testing each other seems impossibly _romantic_ ; the truest form of intimacy. 

Storming out, Sherlock returns to his own flat, suddenly very glad he kept it. Going into his storage, he pulls out several boxes and begins throwing everything that reminds him of _Jimmy_ in. Taping them shut, he shoves them into the farthest corner to avoid ever accidentally running across them.

His last act involving the name "Jimmy" is to delete his phone number, both from his mobile and from his mind palace. He knows if he doesn't, he'll be too tempted to call.

Then he sets his mind on "Moriarty," and whatever carried the "M." insignia. He pulls up a map of England and one of the whole continent of Europe, and tacks them next to each other on his living room wall. Using the case notes he'd stolen from Lestrade, he begins to put pins in places he knew Moriarty to be working. Sites of murders. Different colors for different crimes. Strings to connect the dots. Sticky notes where there was only _strong evidence_ , rather than a confirmed "M." case. 

Once he's done, Sherlock is startled by the sheer enormity of the web, _he's a spider… weaving his endless web of mischief. The top of his particular food chain, seeing as there is no bird clever enough to get through the traps he's laid down…_

_Except possibly me._

The problem, however, is far worse: the one person who _can_ catch Moriarty, also doesn't _want_ to. Sentiment is horrible that way. And Sherlock's woes don't end there.

After crumpling in his mostly unused bed, Sherlock wakes several times in the night to find his face and pillow _soaked_. Worse than during his adolescent abandonment of Jim's letters. _This isn't right and you know it._ He thinks, every cell in his body revolting against his decision, _Go back. You may be angry, but it'll make you even madder to make the same mistake twice in your life._

_You aren't meant to be without him._

Sighing, Sherlock surrenders to his feelings, _Tomorrow. After work. I'll take him up on his offer to run away. Mycroft can be suspicious all he likes, but he will never find us._ He finally finds peace, allowing him to sleep through the rest of the night, _No one will ever come between us again._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, walking to the university to start his workday, Jim is hit by a taxi. The driver flees the scene. 

Jim dies before the ambulance even arrives. 

Listed as his emergency contact, Sherlock is called in to identify the body. 

Stone faced over the bashed up corpse on the frigid morgue table, he confirms the police ID. Though there isn't much to it — Jim has no "next of kin" documented, having done everything in his power to erase any relation between he and his family. Besides Sherlock, who can't do much with the information, there's no one to notify. 

The university arranges a funeral. Much of the staff attends. Plenty of his old students. Colleagues. Key members of the military. Mycroft is curiously absent, but then again, he never claimed to _like_ Jim anyway. Regretfully, Sherlock doesn't attend, _I never belonged in that part of Jim's life. I'd just be out of place. Besides. I wouldn't be crying._

He doesn't shed a single tear that day. The earlier peace he'd found was interfering with his ability to feel. However, through all his valiant efforts to remain impartial and unaffected, Sherlock finds he desperately wants to remember Jim's number. Which is odd, since his phone was pulverized in the crash, and thus wouldn't even receive any messages he'd try to send. _Actually, that makes it worse…_ he thinks, _There's no chance whatsoever he'd get my texts…_

Within a few weeks, Sherlock is being hounded by a lawyer. After a few intentionally missed calls and ignored text messages, he gives in and tries to find out what the attorney wants. 

It turned out that Jim had written a will, specifically precluding his parents from any of his possessions or house, leaving it all to Sherlock.

Unsure of what to do with it, or how to feel, he brings some of Jim's stuff that he might find useful to his flat. All the books. Some furniture. Old notes on crimes he'd orchestrated, encrypted with codes they used to use with each other as boys. It's enough to tug at his heartstrings, but isn't enough to inspire any real feelings. 

Sifting through the contents of Jim's study, Sherlock freezes: his hands automatically clench around a stack of old envelopes. _Addressed to one James Moriarty… from William Holmes._

Finally, his reaction is too much to contain. Far beyond crying, the pain swells in Sherlock. His skin is too tight, like the feelings are a physical abscess, smashing his organs against his cold outer shell. Then bursts, shrapnel from his soul shooting in every direction. 

He blacks out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Have some deadness! >:D


	34. Sherlock, age 29-32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal Thoughts and Desires

When Sherlock wakes up, it's already been three months. He'd been blankly ensconced in a trance; some zombie-like state that he still wasn't quite out of, but at least his brain seemed to be on again. 

Time whizzes by. Or maybe it doesn't. Sherlock can no longer tell, as minutes, hours, weeks, no longer hold any significance. _Most of my life… time was only valuable in terms of Jimmy…_ it was pathetic, and he felt like a child, but Sherlock couldn't deny that was how he'd been wired, _Even before we met… time pulsed forward toward the glorious moment when I'd apprehend the person who murdered Carl… then I met_ him _._

_And time became about waiting for his letters._

_Waiting for him to visit._

_Then uni, it became about waiting for him to get out of classes._

_The day we'd make up._

_Even right before he died… it was going to be about waiting for the glorious moment I could finally bust him as my arch-nemesis._

_Then it was counting the seconds until I could apologize._

_Then run away together._

_Either way, time wouldn't have mattered… he'd always be by my side._

And so much more than that. There wasn't an occasion in his life Sherlock could remember enjoying without Jimmy. _Now… what do I wait for? What do I look forward to?_

At some point, Mycroft helps him sell the house. Overseas buyer, no contact is made. Sherlock doesn't bother to check how much money it goes for, or who it's given to. He wants nothing more to do with it. His own flat has been plunged into chaos, the former detective unwilling to lift a finger to clear even the most rudimentary of paths from the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Despite what little protest he has left in him, after a week or so into his "awakening," Sherlock moves in with his brother as an alternative to being checked in for suicide watch. He's given a cushy room, sparsely decorated to prevent any suspected self-harming behaviors, _Not even any pens… good job, brother, you're officially paranoid_. But even if the main concern was drugs, other options weren't that ludicrous of a notion. 

For a year, Sherlock doesn't leave bed. Occasionally Mycroft will command he hose off in the shower, or stuff a sandwich down his throat. He obeys, brain running on autopilot. 

If a particular mood strikes him, Sherlock might reread all of their letters. Arrange them neatly in chronological order so it feels more like a conversation. But other than that, he lives in a constant blur of grief that he still can't quite tackle. Pursuing a truth that he intentionally keeps out of his reach. To process it would be accept it. And he can never go there. 

Eventually Sherlock finds his legs again, and spends his spare time learning to disable Mycroft's security cameras. Soon enough, he can sneak out without getting caught. And then he stops coming back altogether. 

When this happens, Sherlock starts spending time in and out of jail for possession. Usually heroin, though cocaine made its way back into his repertoire. On rare occasion that he wasn't in jail, he was in the streets, in abandoned buildings, following wherever the dealers or other junkies went. 

It wasn't about _dependence_ anymore, it was about forgetting. It was about dulling the near-constant pain he was in, torn between wanting to daydream about his dead lover, cling to the denial that allowed him to think Jimmy was still alive somewhere, and wishing they'd never met. That Jimmy never existed and little Billy had just grown up without any friends at all, _Alone could've protected me_.

Of course, Lestrade keeps him out of any _real_ jail time, aware of the loss his colleague had suffered. But in the end, it's all just enabling. 

Unavoidably, Sherlock ends up in the hospital, a dose finally too high. 

"You very nearly _died_ , Sherlock." Mycroft scolds, his voice red hot with anger and disappointment. He'd been sitting at his bedside for two days, waiting for him to come out of his near-death experience. 

"Perhaps it's time I did." Sherlock says, using what little strength he had to yank out his IV fluids. Blood and saline pool on the floor, making abstract ink blots — Sherlock thinks he might see Jim's face in them. 

Thankfully, a nurse had been standing by to sedate him. 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft sticks him in the suicide ward, "Funny thing. Since I've taken your power of attorney before, it was rather easy to get it _again_." He knows Sherlock is truly in danger when he doesn't protest. 

Sherlock paints again, but without any focus. He just blends color, trying to mix them better, like Jimmy had wanted. _But it's still garbage…_ he thinks, staring at a canvas, blank, save for a few lines of blue, the exact sheen of the stolen sports car eluding him at that very moment. He resigns himself to bed, the thin sheet doing little to protect him from the crushing weight of his despondent situation. But here, he isn't allowed to die, _No easy way out of this…_  

At a snail's pace, Sherlock improves. It starts small, leaving bed one day. Drinking a cup of broth on the next. Showering every few months, even if it was just him sitting on the floor of the tub for half an hour as an aide watched to make sure he didn't drown himself. Every now and then, he'll change out of his hospital dressing gown into clothes his brother had brought over. At some point, he returns to aimlessly mixing paint colors. Then making actual shapes. Eventually, he allows visitors. 

Lestrade will occasionally bring him a file of a difficult case, which seems to lighten Sherlock up a bit, "It's a shame, mate." 

"Mm." Sherlock barely notices the DI is there, propping open the folder.

"Anything stand out?" 

"Not yet." He sighs, setting the thin slips of paper on his lap, shutting his eyes, "Come back tomorrow." Showing off used to appeal to him, but now it was best to prolong whatever pleasures he could. 

They're a good distraction, one that reminds him of purpose he had outside of Jim. _Though I'll probably never tell the detective inspector about Moriarty's hand in those murders…_

 _Ah. And there go the thoughts of Jim again…_ Sherlock goes catatonic, shutting himself in the deepest basement room of his mind palace, the information from the Yard now a spew of gibberish across the pages. 

For every internal reminder of Jim, Sherlock takes one step backward in his recovery. He has periods of lucidity, but it takes a very long time to regain control of himself. Even longer to detoxify the effects of his memories. 

 

* * *

 

One day he wakes up and realizes it's been three years. It seems unreal, as he can't even remember how old he was when he was checked in, or, for that matter, how old he is _now_. Glancing down at his hospital bracelet, he sees he had been admitted when he was thirty-one, _Wasn't I just twenty-nine…?_ But realizes that was impossible — he was vaguely aware that the body that was James Moriarty had been buried a long, long time. 

Sherlock notes that he doesn't lose his mind, _Must mean I'm ready…_

After lunch, he tells a nurse that he'd like to see his brother. Mycroft arrives within four hours, looking a bit shocked his brother had requested his presence, "Good afternoon, brother dear, you look like you've eaten recently."

Ignoring the urge he has to point out the considerable amount of weight Mycroft had lost, Sherlock frowns, "I'm ready to go back to detective work." He states, vocal chords straining from disuse, "As you know, I've got some money from selling the house… so I've spoken to a former client, and she's agreed to let me rent one of her flats for a discounted rate as a 'thank you' for a case I handled for her a few years ago. She'll check in on me occasionally and make sure I'm not bleeding out." 

After a moment of consideration, the MI6 agent says, "I'll allow it." Sherlock sighs with relief, but then his brother adds, "On one condition: you've got to find a roommate." 

Shortly after this, he will meet John Watson. Doctor, ex-military, clever, but not like Sherlock. Still, his company is useful, and keeps Sherlock from more self-destructive habits. Destruction of objects, however, is still fair game.

 


	35. Sherlock, age 32.5

**Sherlock, are you ready? -MH**

 

**The car will be there in ten minutes. -MH**

 

**Sherlock, you're doing this. It's for your own good. -MH**

 

Sherlock stares at the screen as the texts pop up. He'd been anxious about this day since Mycroft suggested it, and even though he would usually shoot down an idea just for being _Mycroft's_ , he agreed with this one.

 

**I'm dressed, if that's what you're asking. -SH**

 

**And don't think I'd be doing this with *you* if I had any other option. -SH**

 

 ****The detective sighs. He wasn't sure if he was good enough friends with his flatmate yet to warrant breaching the rather difficult subject of _feelings_ , but regardless, the good doctor was at work, probably chatting up one of the nurses. _He doesn't want to come on such a bleak mission. Even I don't._

But he knew he didn't want to do this alone, and Mycroft was the only one even remotely clued in to the situation. 

 

**I harbor no delusions about our arrangement. Now get out the door, I'm waiting. -MH**

 

Sherlock got in the idling black government vehicle, sitting with Mycroft in the back while some highly paid civil servant transported them. To his everlasting credit (as much as Sherlock can give), Mycroft doesn't say a word.

The ride is less than forty minutes, but the growing agitation in Sherlock's chest begins to rumble, dragging it out for what seems like hours. 

"Breathe, Sherlock." Mycroft warns, not particularly interested in his brother wasting time by passing out.

Sherlock thinks about saying something snarky, but the words don't come. 

When they arrive, the sun is blaring, cloaking the world in fake joy. As Sherlock begins to walk among the headstones, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Here." Mycroft hands Sherlock a bundle of roses. He takes it gingerly, holding them away from his body as if the stems were razor wire. He nods his thanks, _Jim really liked these…_

The grave they're after is in the middle plot. Mycroft holds his umbrella over both of them when they arrive, trying to keep the obtrusive light from ruining their moment. 

They stand in silence. Sherlock lets the perfume of the roses, the warmth of the glowing land, and the faint birdsong convince his senses that he's alright. 

But he's very, very far from alright. 

Fortunately, he isn't getting the urge to use. But he _is_ on the verge of breaking down, getting on his knees and blubbering above the buried casket. This is why he's brought Mycroft; having someone else there grounds him, his desperation to avoid looking _weak_ overriding his body's ridiculous notions of vulnerability. 

So he bends down and places the flowers atop the dirt, where grass has fully grown in, making it no different from the older plots around it. 

"All lives end, Sherlock." Mycroft tries his best to be comforting, but he'd long since given up the idea of ever "loving" someone outside his family. Thus, he's got no experience to draw upon when the subject of "loss" comes up, "All hearts are broken."

"I know." He stays kneeling as he allows his fingers to lightly graze the cool stone, tracing the engraving. Gazing at the marker, he can't help but reason that if he glowers at it long enough, the name would change, "Just some sooner than others." 

But it never does: 

 

**Jim Moriarty**

 

 ****_Because I know you hated "James."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhum... Happy New Year! ... I guess... Um... I might post the next chapter of To Love the Enemy... that'll be a much cheerier way to ring in 2015, yeah?


	36. Sherlock, age 33

"It's a shock blanket." Lestrade explains, "You're in shock." 

"Oh." Sherlock doesn't argue, curling the fleece snugly around him, _I think I am… just not in the way you think_. Yes, the EMTs believed it to be from the gunshot, or watching a man die, or coming so close to death himself, but all of that was peanuts compared to that one word, shouted by a bleeding serial killer: _Moriarty._

He can't figure out whether he's mad or elated. _And whether or not I should be mad about the fact that I'm elated…_ It'd been about a year since he resumed official-unofficial work with the Yard, most of his caseload either run-of-the-mill murders, or independent clients crying about missing spouses. More often than not, it had all been _boring_ , long ago accepting his greatest adversary was six feet below. But now? His carefully constructed perception of reality didn't make sense anymore. 

Sherlock sighs and walks over to John, "Hungry?" He asks, mind trying to work out how Jim went about faking his death. _Or his rebirth._  

"Starving. But Sherlock… what was _that_ all about?"

" _Moriarty_." He replies, trying to keep the vitriol and simultaneous glee out of his voice. 

"What is 'Moriarty?'" John asks, trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"Absolutely no idea." He says, unable to repress the look of admiration and — dare he believe it? — hope. 

 

* * *

 

Arriving back at his new flat on Baker street, Sherlock combs the internet (sometimes not _entirely_ legally) for any sign of the name "James Moriarty." Not quite sure what he's hoping for — if Jim was alive, he'd be furious, but if he were dead, he felt a strong portent that he'd relapse — he scours indiscriminately for _any_ foreshadowing of what was to come.

All he gets is Jim's obituary (which he realizes he's never read). He's not sure if it means anything _now_ , but Sherlock learns that Jim was named after his father, _All the things you'd never tell me about… what was so important about your secrecy?_ He swallows hard at this thought, _I could've loved the truth of you as well._

And much to his surprise, he finds his _father's_ eulogy, which detailed his gruesome homicide _eight_ years ago. _Funny… an anthrax attack that was never solved. Surprised Lestrade never passed the case to me…_ _Then again,_ Sherlock's mind lurches, _I'm sure I would've covered for Jim, as well._ Of course, the detective has no _proof_ it was his favorite consulting criminal who'd committed the murder, he just _knew_. 

He doesn't get any further news until months later. 

 

* * *

 

A new game has begun. Sherlock is at Bart's, examining his new clue under a microscope. _Mud collected from the underside of the trainers shows a diverse pollen layering…_ Shoes that had been left in 221C, the apartment underneath his and John's, _Means someone is trying to get my attention…_  

Especially after the bombing. _Especially since someone is holding a hostage with an explosive vest strapped to their chest… using_ another _voice. Someone doesn't want me to recognize their own sound…_

_One I have known my whole life._

Sherlock is so jittery, he can barely stay in his seat. _It's actually quite difficult to concentrate on looking through the lenses…_ He takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself, but it only marginally reduces his skyrocketing heart rate. 

Wholeheartedly examining the mud, Sherlock doesn't hear the door open. He barely notices when Molly says, "Jim" in such an adoring voice. "So you're Sherlock Holmes…" 

Curiously, the first thing Sherlock _really_ notices is the scent, _apparently someone just walked out of a bakery…_ Then the voice, "Molly's told me all about you." _Higher than an average man's. Shy. Furtive. London accent. Clearly trying to flirt with me — oh._ Sherlock's head jerks up, _Jimmy._

He's incredibly grateful he's trained his facial expressions out of betraying him, and that the microscope hid most of his visage. Even if he hadn't, and was bare to see, he wasn't sure what would give him away: the rage? The shock? The recognition? The burning desire to press him against the wall and finish what he'd started years ago? 

"You on one of your cases?" Jim asks, the detective now hearing that he'd been hiding his real accent with a casual English one _. He looks good. Mostly the same. Eating well. Sleeping less than he should be, but he's happy. Still no issues with drug abuse, but has a drink every now and then…_ Momentarily distracted, Sherlock tries to shake out of it.

Angling his face so only Sherlock could see, Jim gives the tiniest of devious smiles, _Did you miss me?_ Such an arrogant expression should infuriate the detective. 

But it's as if the sun exploded into his skies of endless night; he's forgotten entirely that Jim was ever "Moriarty," or _dead_. Instead, he's become engulfed in driveling thoughts, _What are you_ wearing _, Jimmy?_ Sherlock gives him a covert once-over, _Last I checked, you still weren't "gay," but you're clearly trying to send a message… since Molly hasn't gotten it, you're clearly sending it to_ me.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs." Molly offers, trying to break the silence, convinced that Sherlock was ignoring Jim's presence the same way he refuses to consider _anyone_ else, "That's how we met. Office romance!" 

 _Poor foolish girl seems so giddy…_ Sherlock thinks sardonically, "Gay." He wonders if Jim was still opposed to the label. A sideways glance at Jim's character briefly breaking said _yes._

"What?" Her face falls. 

"Nothing." He finally looks directly at Jim, "Hey." 

"Hey." He's got that same look in his eye he did when they first got together: longing, adoring, admiring. Then with a carefully planned "nervous twitch," he knocks over a metal basin, "Sorry! Sorry!"

 _You're so pretty when you're embarrassed,_ Sherlock smirks despite himself, watching Jim bend over to retrieve it — he missed the way Jim looked at him like he was the only person in the world, _The only face you've ever seen…_

"Well I'd better be off." Jim shifts his gaze to Molly, "I'll see you at The Fox, about six-ish?" 

"Yes!" Molly's reciprocating this look, but Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes privately, _He is pretending she's me… how cute._

"It was nice to meet you." Jim says, still trying to catch Sherlock's eye. But the detective isn't having it, choosing to remain silent, _What is your game, Jimmy?_ Although, he's convinced that if he looks over now, he won't be able to resist shoving Jim onto the lab table, _I'd do it, too. In front of John and Molly. But that would complicate things. Let's avoid that, shall we?_

It's almost as if Jim hears these thoughts, as an almost imperceptible glint twinkled in his dark eyes. 

"You too." When John speaks, Sherlock has to suppress pulling his face into a fat grin as he notices Jim's face go from flirtatious to _seething undertones of rage_. 

 _Clearly, Jim has come in this guise to check-up on the rumors of Watson and I being romantically involved._ Sherlock is secretly pleased with himself — it's been three years, but he can still so well read the gears grinding in Jim's head: jealousy. Uncertainty. The omnipresent question in both of their minds, no matter how they want to deny it: _Are you still mine?_

It's even more satisfying to see that John and Molly are completely unaware. Jim heads out, and as the door swings shut behind him, the rays of light extinguish, leaving Sherlock clear-headed to parse out his feelings. Review the situation. 

With the source of wonderment gone, Sherlock finally remembers what Jim had done to him. That somehow miraculously, he has risen from the dead. _Or more than likely, faked his death just to get away from me… was it a test? Does this mean I passed or that I failed? Or that Jim — no, Moriarty — is truly a psychopath?_

He aches. A deep, agonizing jolt of pain rushes through his circulatory system. Jimmy always had to be clever, but this was just cruel. The worst part of it all was his parting gift, hidden underneath the metal dish. 

It's Jim from I.T.'s number. More importantly to Sherlock, it's _Jimmy's_ number. 

Molly proceeds to grill Sherlock about the "gay" comment, and he comes up with the best tell-tale signs he can think of. _So I cheated a little. Even if I_ hadn't _already known the truth, it would've been the easiest thing in the world to see. Now, his intentions for dating_ you _, on the other hand…_ Sherlock realizes he'd been talking through his mental rant, saying rather blunt things to Molly. This is obvious, as he's upset her, and she had stormed out of the lab in a huff, _Presumably to go confront Jimmy… good luck with that._

Covertly, with Molly run off and John looking away in exasperation, Sherlock opens up a new text, entering in the number. 

 _But what do you say to someone who's been lying about being dead for the past three years?_ With only seconds to think, he dashes out the first thing that comes to mind:

 

**That was cruel. -SH**

 

 _Take that for reticence, you tacit bastard._ Sherlock doesn't expect a reply; his text wasn't worth a second glance, but it got the message across. 

Suddenly, the computer began to chirp, signifying that it had found a match for the flora found on the shoes. "Yes!"

He and John piece together the clues. Well, Sherlock pieces them together, John struggles to get ahold of the core concept. Finally, when he's ready, Sherlock begins to talk it out.

"So the kid who owned these came to London from Sussex about twenty years ago and left them behind…"

"What happened to him?" 

"Something bad." _Duh_ , "He _loved_ these shoes. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them unless he had to. So… a child with big feet… _Oh_."

"What?" John asks, wishing his companion would just _say_ what he was thinking instead of making him demand answers. 

"Oh." Sherlock repeats, mouth hanging open for a moment, _This is an invitation._ "Carl Powers." 

Sherlock proceeds to tell John about the Carl Powers case, carefully omitting the parts that involved Jimmy. _Or how I've sat on the confession and the culprit for the past twenty-two years._ _Or the fact that we were in love._ After _I knew he was a psychopath._

_Or the fact I recognize the poison because I used it myself not two years later._

Without all of that, however, the tale seems mundane. 

"Why would you hold on to this case for so long if there was no real evidence?" John asks, rightly confused.

Sherlock holds back tears, either out of joy or frustration, he can't confirm, "There is now." 


	37. Sherlock + Moriarty, That Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-imagining of the Pool Scene.   
> Also, this chapter was cut in half for sex reasons 

The address is the same. Years ago, the house had been sold to one Mr. Richard Brook. At the time, Sherlock had been too devastated to draw the connection, _Rich Brook… Reichenbach. The case that made my name. He's been hiding in plain sight this whole time… Sod._

Approaching the house, Sherlock confirms that he's got the right place by the state of the rose bushes — Jim never did like those things, so they were kept _meticulously_ by someone _else_. Someone with time to devote to them, rather than the rather rushed hand Jim occasionally applied when he took an interest in plants. 

Sherlock stands there, across the street, feet planted on the sidewalk. Watching the house with scrutiny as if it were about to take off like a spacecraft. He fishes around in his pockets, plucking out a secret pack of smokes he kept for special occasions. One perches between his lips, but his teeth sink into it, biting the tip nearly off. _Damn_. 

A good twenty minutes are spent on indecision — go in, or don't? Move all, stay? Opening his mouth, he lets the ruined cigarette fall to the ground, crushing it out as if it'd been lit at all. Just for something to stall. Because this _was_ happening, no matter how long it took.

The first steps were as if wading through tar. Shaky, plodding, slow. But they were _progress_ , and before he knew it, he was taking each in stride, the lawn approaching him at startling speed. 

Crawling through the same window he had seven years ago, Sherlock was experiencing major déjà vu. The lights in the kitchen were out, but he saw a dim flicker coming from the living room, _Of course that bastard would be waiting for me._

Strutting in as if he still lived there, Sherlock can't help but grin, rounding the corner into the lounge. Moriarty is sitting on the sofa, smirking like many, many mischievous cats. He's lost the "Jim-from-IT" getup, hands folded in his lap, posture exuding confidence. 

"Sherlock! Good to see you! How've you been?" His voice is overly cheerful, dark venom lurking just below the shimmering surface.

" _Alive_." Sherlock's grin fades, feeling unbridled annoyance, "Though, apparently that's a trend." _You dare greet me like you_ didn't _fake your death? Like you_ didn't _put me through hell_ _and back, racked with utter despair, thinking I'd forever lost the only person that ever_ mattered _?_

"If I said I was _sorry_ … would you believe me?" Moriarty's eyes glistened, as if he were on the verge of pitiful tears, but his smirk was mocking. 

" _No_."

The sheen of remorse disappeared in less than a second, a self-satisfied preen taking it all away, "Good, because I wouldn't mean it."

"You made me believe you were _dead_." Sherlock wants to yell, to tear Moriarty apart, to drag him by the hair, put his head through a window, _actually_ kill him, "That wasn't very nice."

"And you broke my heart. It was painful. Are we even?" He says it so casually, he might as well be talking about paint samples for his parlor walls. 

Even though he _isn't_ sure if they are or not, Sherlock just can't find it in himself to stay angry about it, "I thought we were going to be enemies. Have some fun playing cops and robbers. You ran away."

"Consulting detectives and consulting criminals, you mean?" Jim's tone hasn't changed, brow quirked, "I thought I was okay, and that I'd _love_ being your nemesis. But the second you left the _house_ — " Voice cracking, suddenly choked up, he goes silent. For all either of them tried to hide it, there was no hiding from each other. 

Sherlock can _hear_ the unspoken words, the pain just as real and recent for him, too. Mercifully, he changes the subject, "I heard about your father."

"Tragic, wasn't it?" Jim rolls his eyes indulgently. 

The gesture was not lost on Sherlock, who had already suspected the truth. However, he was curious why Jim had waited so long — if it were just the abuse, it would've happened back in their teens. There must've been a trigger, "What'd he do?"

"He killed my mother." Moriarty does not elaborate. 

Sherlock nods, but isn't entirely sure if that was the full story; Jim never mentioned his mother, so they probably weren't that close. But the talk of murder sparks another curiosity: "All these years. You kept those shoes." 

"I did." 

"In good condition. A trophy from your first murder." 

"Are you here to tell me you didn't keep one from _yours_?" Jim asks skeptically. 

"I did." Sherlock sighs, a qualm of lament rising up in him, "I just didn't keep him in such good condition." He half expects his withdrawal symptoms to erupt again. 

Jim pats the seat next to him on the couch, "You didn't answer me how you were."

"Same as always, err… what do you go by these days?" Sherlock hems and haws as he sits next to Moriarty; he wants to go back to their usual banter, but he's unsure if it's even possible. If they're still bonded as they once were, or if this dangerous criminal mastermind is someone else entirely. 

The smaller man shrugged animatedly, "Most of my clients call me 'Moriarty.' Well, no, my _lackeys_ call me that, or just 'sir.' Yes, I like _sir_. _Clients_ mostly go with, 'oh god, oh god, _please_ make it _stop_.'" He's quite theatrical with his voice, Sherlock wonders if he'd spent any time doing drama, "I only really make _direct_ contact when someone has disappointed me." 

"What do your lovers call you?" Sherlock asks, a bit too quickly. He can feel the shadows of jealousy, and knows his heart is still convinced no time has gone by. It's not at all subtle, but he can't stop thinking about those perfect lips being on someone else's. Someone _unworthy._

At this, Jim frowns, losing his cool composure; only Sherlock could make him do that so sincerely, "He hasn't _called me_ in three years." 

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows in surprise, _Really? Just me? Mycroft mentioned you were getting "cozy" with Colonel Moran a few years back…_ despite the prying thoughts, he only says, "That's surprising." 

He idly wonders if Moriarty can read his mind the same way Jimmy or Jim could. If they were different people at all. The man in front of him's answer makes it clear there was never any gap to begin with.

"Ah, yes, _pathetic_ , isn't it?" Moriarty retorts, clearly hearing Sherlock's loud, intrusive thoughts, "I bet _you've_ gone through a string of paramours, each more charming and exotic than the last." 

The detective can scarcely contain his joy: he sees it, his Jimmy, Jim, whatever, back in Moriarty's eyes. It's a joke. The absolute clarity each of them possesses of the other: there is no other option. It's always been each other. 

Twittering, Sherlock can't seem to remember Jim is the enemy, "You _know_ that isn't true." 

"I do now." Moriarty says somberly. It's stupid, but some nagging part of him wouldn't allay the hunch that his beloved had been seeing the ex-military doctor. 

"I think we're both a little pathetic." Sherlock admits, hand inexplicably running itself along Jim's face.

"Mmm." Moriarty closes his eyes and hums in delight, leaning in and kissing Sherlock's neck, "If this is pathetic, I can't say I mind." 

"What ever are we to do with ourselves?" He shivers, an electrifying surge radiating out from where Jim's lips brushed against skin, his body screaming at him to give in, to reclaim the only thing that ever made sense, _Good job, physiology. Pretending he isn't an evil mastermind. Like he didn't just strap Semtex vests to people just to get your attention. Acting as if we're children again. As if he'd never broken my heart, nor I his… As if he hadn't_ just _faked his death_ , "Can't live with you… you apparently can't be alive without me."

"I deal in the business of death…" Moriarty huffs against his neck, smooth, warm. But this isn't making up, this is just reunion. "And, well… this _is_ a business meeting, is it not?" Jim leaps to his feet, straightening out his suit jacket, "So I'll make you an offer: either you walk out peacefully, or lose the pants. Real slow." 

"A bit _forward_ , isn't that?"Sherlock can't quite tell if the latter choice is valid, or what Mycroft would do if he were to take it, so he ups the ante, "You're forgetting the third option."

"What's that?"

"Killing you." Sherlock says simply, standing to meet Moriarty's gaze. But he knows that he could never hurt his precious Jimmy. They _both_ know it. 

"Killing the only man you ever loved, Sherlock? There's no coming back from that." He runs a finger along Sherlock's collar, "You kill me, you will have no choice but to _become_ me. Take my crown, and _keep_ killing to forever run from that nasty guilt."

"You seem to know a lot about that." Sherlock prods, not refuting Jim's inherent claim, "Is that what happened with Carl?"

Moriarty waved a dismissive hand, "Carl humanized me. Made me feel a host of nasty emotions. Just as I do you." _No, if you want to talk of love, your better option would be to bring up my absentee parents…_

"What happens if I were to leave? Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Jim opens his mouth and eyes wide, looking more silly than surprised, "Because I'd be _surprised_ , Sherlock, I really would." Then Jim's face darkened, "And just a teensy bit… _disappointed_." 

"Oh." Sherlock took a moment. Disappointment and Jim were the two things he'd never wanted to mix; anger he could take. Confusion, sadness, apathy, love, joy, friendship, grief; all sorts of things he could expect to be associated with Jim. But disappointment was reserved for _real_ enemies. Is that what they were? They didn't _hate_ each other, at least, not yet, "I'd like to avoid that."

"That you would." Jim curls up his mouth, now actively staring at Sherlock's full lips. 

"What if I stay?"

"Honey," Jim snickers, "You'll be screaming my name anyway." 

Sherlock smiles. _Really_ smiles, for the first time since they parted, " _Try me_."

 


	38. Sherlock + Moriarty, Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah, sorry I've been bad about posting this lately. I just got a new job and it has been kicking my arse. It'll get better when training is done, but for now I'm just trying to stay awake and be the slightest bit productive in my off-time. 
> 
> Anyways, in commemoration of y'all being so patient...
> 
> Here, have some porn!

The words hadn't even fully escaped his larynx before Jim hurdles him backward, Sherlock's back flattening against the wall. But Jim stops there, taking a moment to take his conquest in: the smell, the sight, the touch, _everything_ he'd been missing for _years_. 

"Any time you're ready, Jimmy, really." Sherlock mocks, but in truth, he's aware of what Jim is doing, and he is doing the _exact_ same thing, _Your scent… how do you do that? You are so perfectly preserved…_ _I'd like to have you fossilized._

"Don't rush it, pet." Jim purrs, "I've waited _three years_ for this moment. A few more minutes won't kill either of us."

"Yes, _years_ , I don't see why I should hold off any longer." 

" _Patience_." Jim singsongs, unbuttoning the top clasp on Sherlock's shirt, inhaling deeply into his chest, " _Mmm_."

However, it seems Jim is just as riled, as he makes no hazardous effort with the rest, buttons flying everywhere as they're torn away with one swift tug, "Much better." Jim leans in, finally giving in to his screaming desires, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. Immediately, both men's hearts are well on the way to exploding. Sherlock almost pulls away, overwhelmed with the waves of lust and butterflies struggling to escape. 

They've barely touched. 

Without parting, Jim begins to walk them blindly to the bedroom. Thankfully, Sherlock remembers the way, making the trip much smoother. Moriarty nudges Sherlock back, tripping him over the foot of the mattress. Removing both of their shoes and socks, Jim crawls atop his prize, only to be tossed off.

"Don't think I've forgotten the last time." Sherlock growls, taking _his_ turn into his own hands, "My move." After some initial resistance, removes Jim's shirt, and he shortly realizes why the struggle: Jim has accrued several more scars. Of course, the old abuse markings are there, but now there's a gunshot wound, three stab blemishes, and many shrapnel nicks, _Right, bomber. Should've guessed. Experimenting?_

Jim looks away, suddenly self-conscious. Sherlock amends this by kissing every scar, every mark. Absorbing the information through his lips, he felt a surge of electricity go through both of them with each contact site. Working his way down, he bites the zipper, undoing Jim's trousers with this little parlor trick. He felt giddy — like he was a schoolboy again, seeing Jim undressed for the first time. 

When they are both sufficiently naked, Jim pulls up, floundering for the nightstand drawer. Sherlock is confused, but then sees his partner's hand fish a small tube out of the darkness. His heart leaps, _So it begins._ Jim starts to pour some out, but Sherlock urgently grabs his wrist, "Excuse me, but where oh where did we leave off?" He steals the bottle. 

Jim freezes, but after a moment of deliberation, complies and lays on his back. But as Sherlock begins to lather up his fingers, he calls out to him in a small voice, "Don't."

"Do you want to stop?" Sherlock feels a familiar panic — had he gone too fast? Had he scared Jim the same as before? 

"No." Jim looks away, "I just don't want you to —" 

"I'll hurt you." Sherlock practically reads his mind. 

"It's fine." Jim bites his lip, hesitantly adding, "I just want to feel you." 

For an agonizingly long moment, he's worried Sherlock won't comply. After some consideration, Sherlock skips his fingers and just slicks his shaft, flinching a bit at the icy glide. Very, very, _very_ slowly, he begins to penetrate Jim, stopping at every interval to ease the stretch. It doesn't _hurt_ so much as it _burns_. But he's fully aware of the reward waiting. Or so he thinks. The surprise is slow to hit, but when it does… 

It's… strange. The bombardment of sensation prevents Sherlock from straightaway figuring out why. But then he remembers he hadn't _been inside_ Jim during sex since before he went to rehab (the first time), having all but resigned himself to years of rather impersonal, occasionally too forceful intimate interactions.

Yet, once Sherlock is fully buried inside him, he watches the most curious thing: Jim gazes longingly into his eyes, he doesn't move, instead just focused on observation, all emotion draining from his face. But the _intensity_ is still there, revealing novels upon books of information: the only thing that's not right is just how _right_ it actually feels. 

It feels exactly as shocking and intimate as it had the first time (well, the _second_ time, but neither party likes to remember the real "first"). Jim relaxes all too easily into Sherlock's embrace, wrapping his legs around his waist, both of them shuddering in the renewed sensations.

"I love you." Sherlock whispers. And he does. The last years of their relationship, Sherlock loved an _idea_ of Jim that had been put forth; the lie that Moriarty had constructed. But without that hidden aspect, he had been deprived the privilege of love. But in this moment, there are no secrets: Moriarty had revealed himself, and loved Sherlock despite his campaign to _destroy_ him. Meanwhile, Sherlock should be _furious_ about the grief Jim put him through, the further lies about his life. But he isn't — Sherlock feels free, and finally enlightened. 

He knows who Moriarty is, for _all_ that he is — a murderer, a liar, a manipulator — and _still_ loves him, because he still sees how they are the same. Moriarty remains the young boy he'd met years ago that'd never be untrue to him, _How disgusting it is that we lost our voices as adults… It's honestly baffling, how we even lied to ourselves… So arrogant, we were unworthy of such a connection. But now…_  

"I love you too." Jim replies, pressing his ear to Sherlock's chest, listening to his beloved's heart.

It's with a horrible, sinking, exhilarating feeling in both of their guts that they realize this isn't fucking, or hate sex, or a battle of any kind. Again, they're making _love_. All of the physiological imperative in the world couldn't stop them from over-analyzing this moment, or making hasty escape plans. Mortified, they read on each other's faces the initial stages of doubt, both asking: _Is this really something I want?_ What's terrifying is that neither of them runs away. The answer, it seems, is "yes." 

After they both regain their bearings, Sherlock cants his hips. Slowly at first. Tenderly. Excitement builds, commanding him to go faster. Before he can pick up too much speed, Jim uses the momentum to swing himself over — rolling on top. 

"I was going to apologize." Sherlock half-screams, half-whispers, making every effort not to buck upward into Jim's ministrations, "The next day — I realized it'd be a mistake to give you up — "

"I'm sorry." Jim looks genuinely remorseful, "I was _upset_. I didn't even consider that you might come back — "

"I shouldn't have left in the first place."

"I shouldn't have _lied_." Jim's face is red, flushing in anticipation and exertion, "About my work, about _dying_. _Anything._ I should've — _ah_ — trusted you."

"I visited your grave — "

"This whole year. Once a week." Jim gasps, "I know. I _saw_."

"Why didn't you — ?"

"I did!" Jim pulls Sherlock to his chest, "When I saw you — _ah_ — keep coming back. I knew you meant it. So I let my web begin to touch your life — _ah_ — I set up this whole game." Sherlock began undulating under Jim's weight, going full force, as much as his body could muster, "Just… to see you… _again_."

Jim feels Sherlock let go, feeling the warm splash against his insides, filling him up. The idea is enough to force the coil at his core to unravel violently, Jim crying as his prick pulses out his release. 

"Don't… ever… lie… to me… again." Sherlock pants, pulling Jim against his chest. 

"I won't ever be so foolish." Jim nips at his clavicle, "I lied to protect myself… I _stupidly_ feared you wouldn't accept me for who I am. Now that I know… well, there is no reason."

Sleep overtakes them quickly; together, it's safe, and their mutual insomniac habits evaporate. 

For the first time since his apparent slaughter, Jim doesn't have nightmares. The feeling of love has returned, even if still a bit cynical. Ignorance may be gone, but innocence calls out to them,commanding their hearts to trust as they once had. 

Innocence, after all, was something they'd come to associate with one another. _Mostly just its loss…_ are Jim's last coherent thoughts before delta brain waves hit. 

 


	39. Sherlock + Moriarty, The Next Day; age 33-35

As was old habit, Sherlock checks to make sure Jim is still there upon waking. That last night wasn't all a beautiful, crazy dream. That his _whole life_ hadn't been chasing a ghost. However, turning on the mattress, towards the unattached weight, Sherlock can already tell that he isn't in his own bed, the covers too soft, mattress too large. Yet, it isn't unfamiliar. A sweet scent permeates his nostrils, soaking the sheets, the air. 

Smiling already, there _he_ is, bright brown eyes fixed on Sherlock's clear blues, staring at him as if there is no one else in the world. And in this moment, there really isn't. Sherlock leans in, placing a chaste kiss on his mouth, warmth radiating out from the gentle brush of their lips. Sherlock sits up, repositioning his face so that he could slowly fall back over, ear pressed to Jim's heart.

It beats. Alive.

Jim ignores his work, Sherlock turns off his phone. 

They have one conversation sometime in the afternoon, and it's short: 

"I love you." Sherlock murmurs against his chest. 

"I know. I love you too."

"Jim…" Sherlock whispers, "If you ever do leave… can you just go? No theatrics. No faking your death. Just… I'd rather live knowing you're still out there."

Jim chuckles, "Oh, honey… you're _not_ going to get rid of me. Ever again." Sherlock doesn't reply, silently blushing. "And…" Jim adds, kissing the top of his head, nuzzling into his curls, "When I find it suitable to leave, because it's an inevitability of my restlessness, you're coming with me."

Sherlock lifts his head, raising his eyebrows to stare at Jim, "I'm _what_?" It's genuine curiosity. 

"We're going to take off. Together. Leave this all behind."

"When did I agree to this?"

"You didn't. Not yet. But you will." Jim flashes a dazzling smile, "Trust me."

"That might take some time." Sherlock smirks, laying back against him. But he knows Jim is right — when has he ever _not_ been? Perhaps, in a strange way, it's what Sherlock had always wanted. He'd just never been clear-headed enough to see it 

That's all that comes of it, both silently electing to stay in bed all day, just holding each other. At some point, the detective meanders back to 221B, Watson questioning him on where he'd been all night. Sherlock shrugs, muttering some half-baked excuse about following a lead on Moriarty. It's not a complete lie. John lets it go, not really noticing much different, even if on the inside, Sherlock is flying high, one better than any drug. 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft silently watches, knowing _exactly_ what was going on, but unwilling to believe it. In truth — a tense truth that the brothers acknowledged and chose to ignore — Mycroft had known of Moriarty's status of "living" for at least a year. But he knew his criminal proclivities had only gotten worse, and felt it would be less painful for Sherlock if he didn't know, especially since he'd been steadily improving without him. He didn't want to encourage dependence, or possible relapse. 

That, and Mycroft knew Sherlock's intentions — his brother had never had the strength of conviction, attaching to whatever was "fun" at the time. The problem was that he was tremendously intelligent, and could wreak major havoc if he wanted to, something the elder Holmes had spent much time trying to steer him away from. 

Plus, Mycroft was bound by his own weakness for his brother to try and keep him out of trouble, at any cost. No matter the amount of people bribed, coaxed, discredited or just plain killed, he was bound by familial ties to do whatever he could. Parental guilt over "protecting the family name" also entered into it, but that was less of an issue than it once was.

Now, he could only _wait_ for the day Sherlock would turn to Moriarty's side, but hoped against all odds that they may find enough entertainment in being enemies. 

And they do, for a while. 

 

* * *

 

At some point in the night, the detective returns to "Richard Brook"'s flat. He removes his clothes leisurely as he walks to the bedroom, leaving a crumpled trail for Jim to find in the morning. But for now, that doesn't matter. He slides between the sheets, where Moriarty is waiting for him, immediately curling around him, "I'm glad you came." 

Funny enough, Sherlock finds himself in the same situation the next day.

And the next day.

For more than two years, there isn't a morning that Sherlock wakes up alone. ****


	40. Sherlock + Jim, age 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get back to! I had to factory reset my computer and somehow this story didn't get stored in my cloud D: BUT. BUT. I had it saved on a flash drive. A flash drive I had misplaced... 
> 
> Well. I found it, after a lot of sobbing that it might be gone. 
> 
> Also, after some thinking, this story might not be long enough. So we might get some more chapters. 
> 
> Anyways. Enjoy some fluff, thank you for your patience.

A cigarette was perched loosely between Sherlock’s lips as he read over the morning paper, ash falling in bits onto the bottom of the page. His curls hang around his face, unkept from disinterest — _life_ was too interesting right now to bother with the minutia of actual living. 

“I thought you quit smoking?” John asks, popping into the living room, dressed for the day, “And while we’re at it… it’s the morning, why are you even _awake_?”

“ _Still_ awake.” Sherlock murmurs, keeping his mouth pursed, “And I quit until the Woman’s death… the first time. Brother dear broke my streak, figured I deserved a little relapse…” He flips the page, eyes scouring hard for the code, or a cue of some sort. 

“Well that’s good to know…” John huffs, snatching the pack off the table, “But I’m still your doctor: don’t smoke.”

Sherlock scowls hard, but doesn’t look up, “Fine. Run off to your normal job.”

“Err… well, yeah, planning on it.” He stuffs the box into his coat pocket, “Unless you’ve got a case?” 

“Nothing.” Sherlock grumbles, pupils slightly dilating from a paragraph on a jewelry heist, “Will text if I find anything.”

“Sherlock…” John begins, concern in his voice, “Are you… ah… are you alright?” 

The detective finally peaks over the top of the paper, “What?”

“It’s just…” He sucks in his lips, “You’ve been… _different_ lately.”

“Change is within my parameters.” Sherlock states simply, returning to the paragraph, “Is it bad?”

“No, you’ve been… never mind.” The doctor doesn’t want to say _happy_ , as he was certain Sherlock didn’t feel things like that. He left without another word, but secretly mused: if he didn’t _know better_ , he’d have noticed a spring in the detective’s step, a slight flush in his complexion, and a desire to be _alone_.

Well, not _alone_. 

“Morning, handsome.” A musical Irish lilt permeated the room, yet landed in precisely the right spot to tinge Sherlock’s ears red. Jim’s body followed after his voice, draped loosely in Sherlock’s dressing gown, arms crossing around his beloved’s shoulders, “Took him long enough to leave.”

“Not all of us follow such a tight schedule.” Sherlock says, barely containing a smirk. He turns his head slightly, pecking the stubble on Jim’s jaw, “Sleep well?”

“Infinitely better that you were there…” He gives a soft, contented sigh before disengaging from the half-hug, wandering over to the kitchen, “Even if you were babbling on about the inconsistencies in the Rosetta Stone translation for hours…”

“Nothing has an _exact_ translation, especially not when traveling across such wide barriers —“

“Shh, darling.” Jim shushes playfully, “I know, I enjoyed it.”

Sherlock calms almost immediately. It’d been easy enough to forgive his dear Jimmy for crushing his heart so thoroughly. But there were habits, feelings he’d developed while he’d been left for so long. The fact that someone _finally_ was interested in all the tediums of what he had to say was still baffling, and occasionally, if Jim teased the wrong way, lead to some defensiveness. “Speaking of translations…” He murmurs, somewhat embarrassed by his overreaction, “I found your message.”

“Message?” Jim asks impishly, winking at him as he turns on the kettle.

“‘My dear Sherlock, I love you.’” He parrots, reading the modified Sebald code in the article, “A bit less subtle than usual… feeling sentimental?” 

“Maybe I was just trying to get your attention…” Jim shrugs, pouring himself a mug, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently as it steeped.

“Stealing precious gems now?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “Seems a bit beneath you.”

“Mm. Deception, darling…” He grins, raising the cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip, then scowling as he burned his lips, “It’s not about the diamonds at all… although they _are_ nice…” 

“Distraction, should’ve known…” Sherlock grumbles a bit — he hated missing something, especially when it’d take that much more time to figure out. But it doesn’t last long, “Oh, and the second part… says I should re-stock my fridge and get a haircut?” 

Jim put on a pout, the mug clinking hard on the counter as he lightly slammed it, “Darn. It was supposed to say ‘re-stock the fridge and wash your hair, you look like a _ragamuffin_.’” He sighs, “Can’t trust the help to convey a simple message…”

“Well… the spirit of it was quite clear.” 

“Oh?” Jim smiles, eyes twinkling with adoration, “I hope so.”

_I love you. Take care of yourself._

 


	41. Sherlock + Jim, The Fall

"Ready, my love?" Jim holds out his hand, Sherlock standing at his side on the ledge of St. Bartholomew's roof. 

"As I'll ever be." Sherlock tries to sound skeptical, but he can't help but convey the _thrill_ he feels in starting over. 

They'd spent the past two years playing their beautifully constructed game: everyone believed they were _enemies._ And perhaps they were on some level — sending each other sinister (but flirty) messages, poorly hiding their intimate body language, Jim sewing the seeds of catastrophe to entertain his pet, Sherlock trying to get the upper hand, pretending he was _actually_ trying to turn him in this time. 

Even Mycroft was fooled (and oddly enough, Sherlock felt _remorse_ , taking advantage of his brother's loving weakness, but there was no one else that could manipulate him covertly enough to make this work), meaning the whole of government was convinced as well. 

"It's just a magic trick." Jim squeezes his hand, "No one will come looking for either of us. Finally." 

"I suppose you know _all about that_." Sherlock isn't still bitter, but doesn't shy away from pointing out that indiscretion. 

"We can go anywhere you want, my love." He says softly, circumventing the potentially disastrous exchange.  _Make up for lost time._

"I don't care _where_ , Jimmy." Sherlock almost rolls his eyes at this disgusting admission of sentiment, "As long as you won't abandon me."

"Perhaps a cozy deal in Switzerland."

"Sounds nice."

"Or on a research base in the coldest part of Antarctica?"

"I mean it. _Anywhere_." The detective firmly repeats, even if he doesn't relish the idea of being that cold or isolated, “However, I will need notice on that — get my appendix taken out in preparation.” Even though he knows his lover probably felt the same way, Sherlock _does_ know Moriarty would somehow make it happen if he was dared, so he lets it pass. 

“Mine is already out, slacker.” Jim comments, then offers Sherlock his phone. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Sherlock nods, another branch of their journey on the verge of dawn, neither could be more happy. 

"John should be here presently." He dials the number, ready to send off his "final" words. 

But really, as he chucks the mobile aside, he mutters, "My friend. My enemy. My arch-nemesis. The man who destroyed my innocence and put countless pints of blood on my hands. And _still_ the love of my life."

"As you are mine." A smile cuts across the width of Jim's face, "Quite the enigma, we are."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

They step forward. 

 


	42. Sherlock + Jim, Epilogue

Time does strange things when it stops being _relative_. For Sherlock and Jim, it had stopped ticking away in increments, transitioning into the flow of a calm brook. On no one’s schedule but their own, no longer waiting or watching. 

 _Living,_ despite what two certificates of death would have the world believe. A great trick on the populace, a death as fake as their perceived hatred of each other. This week, they’re in Tahiti: they pretend they’re on the run. It’s partially true, but for once in their lives, no one is _looking_ for them, or threatens to come between them. 

But it’s fun to make believe.

They change their passports with every country they rip through. Collect identities like stamps and oh so many scars, acquire new personas as a rolling stone most certainly _will_ gather moss. Mycroft could find them if he wanted to, but he’s under the impression his younger brother is off stalking the last remnants of the man he loved.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock knows he must suspect; Mycroft knew _everything_. Maybe the entire world knew (or would, if they were paying attention) that this wasn’t about upholding justice at all. Just two perpetually lost souls’ pursuit of fusion.

Location doesn’t matter so much — Jim runs the underground world from his laptop or his mobile. Sherlock returns to his original passion of chemistry experiments. The occasionally juicy case comes up, but always insists he not be given credit (his “vacation” will most certainly be cut short the minute someone from his previous life realizes he’s alive).

Together. And that’s all it really was. Sherlock smiles when Jim is around, sulks when he’s gone, feels emotions to their _fullest_. Jim savors the long periods of lucidity, suffers in moments of conscience. But Sherlock is always there to talk him through it. 

“When I say, ‘I love you,’ am I saying it to you, or myself?” Philosophical debates strike Sherlock this way every now and then, whenever he thinks too hard about their dilemma. Because to those that seek cohesion, love can only ever be a “problem.” 

Jim will always answer, “Is there a difference?” Be it on warm beaches or chilly mountains, Sherlock is his harmony, the mental cable between he and resonance with the Earth itself. 

Sometimes that answer is enough. 

Genius needs an audience. However, such great minds also need space. Like the universe, they are ever-expanding, webs of thought ever-outreaching. They must breathe, exhaling their old selves before inhaling them once more. 

Even if no one ever finds them, there will be a time they have to split. They’ll fight over something ultimately inconsequential, and the cycle will begin again. Push each other away, then pull back, destroying whatever stands in their path. Forces of nature given nearly-human form.

A funnel cloud hitting the ocean, joined to make a cyclone. 

But things are perfect. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story ends. There will be a flashback follow up story about Jim during his time away playing dead in his younger years (spoiler alert: it's with Sebastian). 
> 
> I thank everyone who had the patience to see it through, especially with my long hiatus! I've had some difficulties lately with writer's block and generally having a bad time of everything. But things are looking up and I feel I've gotten my creativity back. 
> 
> I hope you all have a lovely week :)


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